Free Will
by Jackfan
Summary: Jack goes to work for Sloane, JI. FINAL.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Free Will  
  
Summary: Jack goes to work for Sloane after Sydney goes missing.  
  
Genre: Jack angst, with a strong J/I overlay. Minor mission bits as well. Some sci-fi.  
  
Rating: PG-13 for language. One R bit, which will be well flagged in advance.  
  
Disclaimer: All the characters are JJ's, with the exception of Grenis, who is mine. And who I promptly blow to bits.  
  
With thanks to Spyjacked, whose encouragement significantly increased the probability that I would publish this, and whose comments will make it better. And to Evanscence.  
  
With apologies to Isaac Asimov and Charles Dickens, for ripping off their concepts.

Setting:  Immediately post-The Telling

**

Jack sat groggily in the Ops Center conference room, waiting with impatience for the fog in his brain to clear.  He swatted irritably at the long-suffering medic who moved forward to check his blood pressure again.  "How much longer?" Jack asked, for the 3rd time. 

"Not long, Agent Bristow.  We've injected you with a stimulant that will counter the effects of the tranquilizer you were administered.  Another couple of hours and you should be fine."

Jack growled with exasperation.  It had already been 3 hours since the Ops team had found him.  He had just sat through one of the most frustrating debriefing sessions of his life.  Sloane missing.  Irina missing.  The DeRegno heart missing.  Il Dire, whatever the hell that was, missing too.  Everything and everyone was missing.  What a cock-up.  

Damn Sloane.  How far away was he by now?

**

Vaughn parked his car in front of Sydney's house.  The debriefing, while ugly, had been blessedly short; and he hoped she was packed for their trip.  Three days in Santa Barbara.  Sydney definitely needed the break.  He rang the doorbell and waited.  Puzzled, he rang again.  When there was no response he peered in through a window, and his stomach clenched with fear.

**

Jack's phone, buried in his jacket pocket, began to ring.  With effort, Jack stretched an arm towards the chair that held the jacket.

"Bristow."

"Jack, it's Michael Vaughn.  I'm at Sydney's house."  Jack heard the underlying strain in Vaughn's voice.  "You'd better come over here right away."

"Sydney?" Jack demanded.

"She's missing."

**

Arvin Sloane sat aboard his private jet as it whisked its way across the Pacific.  The immediate crises of the previous 48 hours were past.  Il Dire was safe.  He had outwitted Derevko and the CIA.  Everything was falling into place.

Once again, he was pursuing the next piece.  This time, not a Rambaldi artifact.  Not an ancient document.  But a human asset that was critical to his success.

Jack Bristow.

Arvin pursed his lips.  A challenge.  It would need to be done skillfully; Bristow must choose to work with him of his own free will.  Fortunately, Jack had a few chinks in his armor.  And  Arvin, his friend of 30 years, knew them better than anyone.  Even better perhaps, Sloane mused, than Jack himself.

**

Disconsolately, Jack made his way through Sydney's house one more time.  Sydney had apparently vanished into thin air.  For the past 72 hours he had driven himself and the Ops Center team relentlessly, following up every lead, with no success.  Jack himself had not slept at all.  

His gaze swept the now well-covered crime scene as he barely restrained his impulse to scream in rage.  This had been her home, her safe haven.  What had she thought, seeing Will lying, apparently dead, in the bathtub?  Seeing Francie attack her?  And how had he, her father, failed to realize the mole was Francie, once Will was cleared?  What good had all his strategies and plans been if he had failed to protect his own daughter?  

Abruptly he halted, retracing his steps.  Something nagged at him, something he had missed.  He paused in the kitchen, scanning carefully.  There.  On the refrigerator, a small piece of paper, held on by a magnet, surrounded by pizza and Chinese delivery menus.  A note that had not been there previously. 

"Thoroughbred.  468-923-5874."

Thoroughbred.  Sloane's code name when he had worked at the CIA, all those years ago.  Sloane had counted on his finding this.  Jack snatched the paper off of the refrigerator and sagged against the counter, overcome with relief, as he realized the meaning of the message.  Sydney was alive.  Sloane wanted something, but at least Sydney was alive. 

**

Jack sat in his car, and carefully smoothed out the paper.  A name.  A phone number.  A decision.  He found it curious that Sloane had left the decision to make contact up to him.  _The thing of it is, you are going to work with me -- sooner than you think_.  Perhaps he wouldn't want much.  Jack gazed unseeingly out of his windshield.  Perhaps the tooth fairy was real.

And the question of the hour, Bristow, he thought to himself, is whether there is anything you'd refuse to do to get Sydney back.  Any line you wouldn't cross.  Would you kill someone?  Well yes, you've already done that before.  Would you kill 10 people?  100?

He hesitated for a moment only, then dialed the number.

"Sloane."

"Where is she?" Jack asked dispassionately.  He would not give Sloane the satisfaction of hearing the worry in his voice.

"Being taken care of."

"I can take care of her."  Jack worked to keep his temper under control.  Damn Sloane and his overactive interest in Sydney's welfare.

"Apparently not."

"What do you want?" Jack snapped, unable to maintain the semblance of control any further. 

"I've already told you, Jack. Our friendship," purred Sloane.  Jack felt the nausea rising in his throat.  "A partnership.  Which you will find beneficial.  To you.  To Sydney."

"Leave Sydney out of this," snarled Jack.

"I think you need to see her first, Jack, before you say that."  _Click._


	2. Chapter 2

Jack awoke from the sedative that Sloane's men had administered to find himself in what appeared to be a small private hospital. He was unsurprised to see that he had been handcuffed to the bed in which he was lying and waited, with rising impatience, for Sloane. Doubts assailed him; he closed his eyes and tried to forget just how very vulnerable he was if Sloane chose this moment to end their 'friendship'.  
  
"It's good to see you again, Jack," came Sloane's satisfied voice. Jack's eyes opened to see Sloane standing in the doorway, flanked by guards.  
  
"Where's Sydney?" Jack growled, not in the mood for polite conversation.  
  
Sloane studied him for a moment before answering. Jack had taken the bait as anticipated, he thought. One of the CIA's most dangerous, field-savvy agents, and he was lying helplessly on the bed in front of him. Really, he was frighteningly easy to predict. "Free him." Sloane gestured to one of the guards to unlock Jack's handcuffs, and he sat up, massaging his wrists. "Follow me," he ordered.  
  
Without another word, Sloane turned and walked out of the room. Apprehensive, Jack followed him down the hallway, then turned into another room. A room, Jack knew immediately, with only one purpose. To keep Sydney alive.  
  
Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of his daughter laying unconscious on her hospital bed, hooked up to monitors, tubes streaming out of her body. He felt as if his heart had stopped. "Sydney?' he whispered. He staggered closer and reached out to touch her lifeless hand. "Sydney?" he said louder, willing her to respond, willing her eyes to open. The only sound in return was the soft and regular "whoosh" of her ventilator.  
  
Blind rage filled him, and he wheeled towards Sloane. "You son-of-a- b*tch!" he roared. "What have you done?" Heedless of the guards, Jack lunged at Sloane, reaching for his throat.  
  
It took 4 guards to pull Jack off Sloane. One of them raised his gun, intending to club Jack senseless, but Sloane waved him off. "A 'thank you' might have been more appropriate," he said dryly, straightening his tie. "She would be dead now if it hadn't been for me."  
  
"Dead?" repeated Jack incredulously, jerking free from the guards, who watched him warily.  
  
"Dead. We were, er, in the neighborhood, and found Sydney unconscious. She had a subdural hematoma - which was putting pressure on her brain - that would have killed her had it been left untreated another 30 minutes."  
  
"You just happened to be in the neighborhood.with a full medical team?"  
  
"Our asset called for assistance before she passed out."  
  
"Your asset?" repeated Jack, increasingly confused.  
  
"Francie's clone."  
  
Francie's clone. Sydney's best friend, casually murdered as a convenience to Sloane. Another travesty Jack had failed to anticipate, failed to prevent. Jack's fists clenched again.  
  
"Sydney's in a coma, Jack," Sloane said patiently, oblivious to Jack's reaction. "Believe it or not, I'm doing everything possible. I've been caring for her as if she were my own child."  
  
"She. is. not. your. child." said Jack between clenched teeth.  
  
"Fine," Sloane said with exasperation. "Talk to the doctors yourself," and he left the room.  
  
Several hours later Jack emerged. He had talked to the medical team that Sloane had managed to assemble on short notice. He had looked at the brain scan, which showed multiple blows to her head over the course of a week, the cumulative effect of which had been devastating. He had been told that she could wake up tomorrow, or in 3 months, or in 3 years. He had read her chart. He had held Sydney's hand. He had run out of ideas.  
  
"I want to take Sydney with me," said Jack abruptly.  
  
Sloane politely raised an eyebrow.  
  
Jack bristled. "You said she wasn't going to be a pawn."  
  
"And she won't be. Can I ask how you plan to care for her?" asked Sloane.  
  
"No you can't," snapped Jack.  
  
"Oh? Win the lottery lately?" asked Sloane mildly. "Do you have any idea what it will cost to provide her with the round-the-clock medical care it will take to provide a chance of full recovery?"  
  
"The CIA-,"  
  
"-will provide an adequate standard of care. She'll be placed in a VA nursing home after a month, in a ward with 20 other patients. She'll be there for the rest of her life."  
  
Jack's lips were pressed tightly together. Anything was better than leaving her with Sloane.  
  
"However, I won't stop you if you'd like to take her with you. All I ask is that you do one thing first."  
  
"What?" asked Jack with foreboding.  
  
Sloane gazed pensively at Jack. Time to start reeling him in. "I want you to look at the future," he replied. 


	3. Chapter 3

Jack lay back on the table, trying to dampen his misgivings.  Get this over with, then get Sydney out of here, he told himself.  He didn't flinch as the technician attached the oddly shaped electrodes to his forehead.  A low hum emanated from the next room.  He had an odd feeling that he had done this before.

"Familiar, Jack?" asked Sloane, correctly interpreting Jack's expression.  "When we picked you up with the DiRegno heart, you were hooked up as well, but we needed to keep you sedated.  Il Dire needed to be calibrated to your brain waves."

Jack gave Sloane a puzzled look.  "Get serious, Arvin.  What is this really about?"

"Do you remember what I said to you at the restaurant?  That I had thought that Rambaldi's work was the window to the past, but was wrong?  Jack, Il Dire's not a window to the past – it's a window to the future."

_I've seen things, Jack_.  Jack looked back at Sloane, alarmed.  Was it possible that Sloane had gone mad?

"Thoughts, memories, emotions – they're no more than electric impulses.  Il Dire can read these – correction, now that it's calibrated, yours – and amplify them 10 times, 100 times, 1000 times.  Can combine them with other data – just additional electrical signals, really – and allow you to project forward at a speed and accuracy you'd never be able to achieve on your own.  To anticipate, plan, control the future.  Game theory – taken to its logical conclusion."

"You expect me to believe that a 15th century scientist developed the means to see into the future?" Jack asked scornfully.  "If that's what this is about," he waved at the wires dismissively, "we can stop right now."

"How do you think I knew Irina would try to double-cross me?" asked Sloane.  "I mean," he smiled slightly, "besides the fact that no one in his right mind would trust Irina?"

"She double-crossed you?" Jack asked, momentarily diverted.  He schooled his face into a casual expression so that Sloane would not detect his intense interest in the answer.

"She seemed to think that providing the CIA with the location where I was storing the Rambaldi artifacts was a better option than working with me.  Why she thought redemption with the CIA was desirable is anyone's guess.  Thanks to Il Dire, though, I was able to trade some rusty appliances for the DiRegno heart.  Not a bad deal," Sloane finished with satisfaction.

Jack was silent.  He was too busy absorbing the fact that Irina had not betrayed them after all.  Redemption.  Not with the CIA.  With Sydney.  And perhaps…

"Just trust me, Jack.  Lie back and relax.  Concentrate on Sydney."  Sloane turned to the technician.  "Three months," Sloane instructed.  The technician adjusted the dial on the control panel.

Jack lay back, faintly irritated.  This was ridiculous.  He had always suspected that somewhere along the way Sloane had lost his mental balance.  Now here he was, as if at a séance, waiting for an apparition to materialize out of thin air.

"What do you see, Jack?"

"Nothing," Jack said with disdain.  "You, a technician, and…"

"Open your mind, Jack.  Concentrate on Sydney, in the hospital bed…"

Sydney, Jack remembered with a jolt.  He must get her to safety.  He was worried about her…

_Sydney was lying in a hospital bed, one of many patients on the ward.  Some were on ventilators, all were hooked up to IV's and monitors; none appeared conscious. A nurse moved tiredly from bed to bed, reacting to monitor alarms, taking vital signs.  She looked up at the clock and sighed.  Almost on cue, the doors to the ward opened and visitors straggled in.  Jack was one of the first through the door.  He strode up to Sydney's bed, carrying fresh flowers that he placed in the vase on her nightstand, dumping the wilted flowers in the trash.  He talked to her non-responsive form in a conversational tone._

_"You're looking better," he said cheerily, swallowing the lump in his throat as he took in her wan face, crumpled nightgown, and unkempt hair.  He reached for the hairbrush on the nightstand and lifted her up, tenderly brushing her hair, continuing to chat inconsequentially.  He had helped her with her hair when she had been small; he still remembered how.  Carefully he lay her back down again._

_He looked around for her nurse, who had retreated to the nurses' station at the end of the ward.  A small crowd was already gathered around her.  Jack strategically maneuvered himself to the front of the group.  "I'd like to speak with the doctor," he said coolly._

_"I'm sorry, sir, he's away on another ward."_

_"I'll wait," said Jack uncompromisingly. _

_"I'll page him," she replied with resignation.  She had dealt with Mr. Bristow before, and had little doubt about his willingness to wait. _

_30 minutes later, a fresh-faced intern approached Jack.  "Can I help you, Mr. Bristow?"_

_"I'd like an update on my daughter's progress."_

_"Certainly, sir," said the intern, flipping through Sydney's chart.  "It looks like the neurologist was here a couple of weeks ago and reported no change."_

_"A couple of weeks ago?" replied Jack angrily.  "That's the last time he was here?"_

_The intern shifted uncomfortably.  "Mr. Bristow, our hospital is allocated 20 hours per week of the neurologist's time.  By necessity, he concentrates his efforts where progress is most likely.  He did recommend some activities to increase the amount of external stimulation your daughter receives, but to be honest, sir, we're not staffed for that kind of support."_

_"What are my other options?"_

_The intern paused, considering.  "You could bring in a private nurse, but it's pretty expensive."_

_Hating himself, Jack asked, "How much?"_

_"24 hour coverage – about $750 per day."_

_Jack swallowed, and did the arithmetic.  More than $20,000 per month.  Three times his salary.  He had some savings put away…if he used it all, perhaps 7 or 8 months worth of care…"What does the neurologist say?  How long until…how long will she be like this?"_

_The intern glanced again at Sydney's chart.  He looked up at Jack with eyes older than his years.  "Mr. Bristow – she could be like this for the rest of her life.  I'm sorry."_

Sloane's voice intruded.  "Skip across, Jack.  Skip across – what other futures do you see?"  Jack frowned, eyes closed, oblivious to the tear tracks down his face.  Other futures?  What did he –

_Sydney lay in a hospital bed in a brightly lit room, looking almost peaceful as her medical team hovered over her.  It was, Jack recognized, the room he had just left in Sloane's hospital.  The head physician looked up and smiled as Jack entered.  "I have good news for you, Mr. Bristow.  We've been trying some experimental approaches with your daughter and we're starting to see progress."_

_"Has she woken up yet?" asked Jack eagerly._

_"Patience, Mr. Bristow.  We've started seeing some brain activity in an area that had previously been dormant.  It's not conclusive, but it is certainly encouraging."_

_Sloane stuck his head in the door.  "When you're done here, Jack, I need your help planning the next op."_

"Any more futures, Jack?  You can see them, you know.  Open your mind."  Jack shifted restlessly.  He didn't want to let go of the last one-

_Sydney lay still in bed, covered by a flowered duvet, surrounded by pictures of her family and friends.  Jack could see that the room was decorated in the style that Sydney's bedroom had been when she was growing up.  A nurse sat quietly by her bed._

_The nurse looked up, startled, as shots echoed down the hallway, and he watched her flee.  Irina ran into the room and moved purposefully, disconnecting Sydney from the various tubes and wires attached to her. She muttered imprecations under her breath.  Someone had betrayed her to her enemies, had revealed the spot where she was most vulnerable – by her daughter's side.  She would not leave Sydney behind.  She just needed a few more minutes to get Sydney ready, then to drag her to safety.  _

_Minutes that she did not have.  The door burst open, and gunfire raked both of the room's occupants.  Jack watched horrified as Irina slumped dead over Sydney's lifeless body._

_"_No!" Jack shouted, bolting upright on the table, breathing heavily. With effort he calmed himself, his back towards Sloane.

 "Lie back down, Jack," said Sloane soothingly.  "Close your eyes again."  Reluctantly Jack complied.  "Have you seen them all?" came Sloane's voice.  Jack cast around in his mind.  There was nothing else there.  Slowly he nodded_._

"Keep all the futures in your mind.  Slowly step back in time.  You'll find one point in the timeline where they all intersect.  Look, Jack."

Suspending disbelief now, Jack did as he was instructed.  It was almost like following strings backward until he found the knot that joined them all.  He halted.  He had found it.  He frowned in concentration.  Then opened his eyes and looked at Sloane in defeat.

"Now," he said, his throat dry.   "It's now.  I can take Sydney with me, stay here with you, or ask Irina to help.  And that decision leads to three different outcomes."

Sloane nodded.  "But it's up to you which future becomes reality, Jack.  Stay of your own free will, or not at all."

Jack laughed cynically.  "Right.  Free will."  He closed his eyes for a moment, contemplating what it would cost him to work with Sloane.  His honor.  His future.  And, if Sydney ever woke up, her love.  "What's so f*cking important that you need me?" he asked bitterly.

"Il Dire.  You just had a glimpse of the future 3 months out.  What if I told you that you could do the same for 2, 20, 200 years into the future?  I need you to be my radar, Jack."__

"You don't need me for that," said Jack flatly.  "Surely it works for anyone."

"Oh, but I do need you, Jack.  Because you're one of the best game theorists in the world.  You can develop, review, and toss out options faster than almost any human.  Matched up with Il Dire – you'd be infallible."

"*****You* would be infallible," Jack corrected grimly.

"Well, yes, there's a degree of self-interest," Sloane acknowledged.

_The thing of it is, you are going to work with me -- sooner than you think._  Jack's face contorted in anger as he realized that Sloane had seen this coming.  "You b*stard," he whispered.  "You knew."

"Knew what, Jack?"

"You knew I would work with you.  Knew Sydney would become seriously injured."  Jack began to rise from the table, menace again in his eyes.

Sloane raised his hand.  Time for a little more pressure, he thought.  He almost had him now.  "Stop, Jack.  For all my crimes, I'm not guilty of this one.  Twice I told Sydney that I couldn't protect her if she did not stop pursuing me.  It was her decision to stay with the CIA.  I knew that she'd be injured, and did everything I could reasonably do to prevent it.  You, on the other hand, knew that she ran a real risk of serious injury, but did nothing to stop her."

"She'd be a teacher now if it hadn't been for you," Jack countered through gritted teeth.

"Oh, I don't think so," said Sloane softly, looking at Jack.  "Not with the early career counseling you provided."  

Jack dropped back down on the table as if he had been physically struck.  Dear God, what a father he'd been to the child he'd brought into this world, the one person that had honestly loved him.  He remembered when Sydney was small, and believed her father was perfect, that he'd always protect her.  How often had he proven her wrong since then?  SD-6.  Danny.  Francie. Would he abandon her again?  He rubbed his hand wearily across his eyes.   "All right," he muttered.

"All right, what, Jack?" Sloane pressed.

Jack swallowed as the bile rose in his throat.  "You win, Arvin.  I'm staying."

With difficulty, Sloane suppressed a smile of triumph.   "Just so we're clear, Jack.  While you're working with me, I'll do everything in my power to help Sydney.  But if something happens to me, the funding disappears."

Jack tilted his head in acknowledgement.  "I understand," he said in clipped tones.

"And you'd better find a way to call off the hunt for Sydney.  If the CIA finds her, the deal's off."

Jack felt the blood drain from his face.  There was only one way that the CIA would stop looking for Sydney.


	4. Chapter 4

Sydney's funeral was held on a misty May morning. Her mangled body had been identified by her father in Bogota, Columbia where it had been discovered following an anonymous tip. No one observing Jack Bristow that morning could doubt the depth of his despair. That he was reflecting on the unresponsive shell of his daughter that he had visited recently, instead of the anonymous corpse in the coffin, was not as evident.  
  
Silently he mourned. Mourned Sydney's lost childhood, and the time they could have spent growing closer to each other. Time they might not have again. Mourned the man he had become, capable of rationalizing lying, torture, and murder as necessary means to an end. And in a rare moment of self-pity, mourned his life. How had it come to this, everything that he had valued most, turned to ash? His marriage, a sham; his best friend, a terrorist; his daughter, destroyed; his honor and loyalty to his country, betrayed.  
  
Jack glanced up at one point during the service, only to lock gazes with an anguished Michael Vaughn. He had met with Vaughn several days earlier to return to him a bracelet that Sydney had been wearing, a gift from Vaughn. A necessary cruelty, Jack knew, to convince him that Sydney was indeed dead. Watching Vaughn struggle for control, then and now, knowing that he was blaming himself, put Jack forcibly in mind of his younger self, coping with the tragedy of Laura's death.  
  
Jack looked over at Sydney's gravestone, sitting side-by-side with Laura's. The irony that the two graves of the people who he had loved most in his life were both false was not lost on him, but only seemed to deepen his gloom.  
  
And when, if, Sydney awoke, and realized what he had done in her name? How her father had betrayed her? With a start, Jack realized that the service was over. He turned on his heel and walked away, unable to bear the sympathies of the other mourners.  
  
Up on the hill, above the cemetery, a lone figure watched the burial through binoculars that trembled ever so slightly. The binoculars followed Jack to his car, then the car as it drove away. 


	5. Chapter 5

Jack unlocked the door to his house and reset the multiple security systems that guarded his privacy. Bleakly he regarded the interior of the dwelling that had served as his home since Sydney had left for college. He was unlikely to see it again. He'd need to pack up the few things he valued and store them somewhere safe. He had the feeling he'd be moving around quite a bit over the next few years.  
  
He started as he heard a small sound in the next room. He glanced back at his alarm system - it blinked at him reassuringly. Cautiously drawing his gun, he advanced to the doorway, and spun around it, only to find Irina sitting rigidly on his bed, staring at a picture of Sydney, seemingly oblivious to his entrance. He lowered the gun and cleared his throat, dreading the next 5 minutes. Hoping that Irina wasn't armed.  
  
Irina looked up slowly, still transfixed by the photo. "When was this taken?"  
  
"She was 16. She had just started to blossom, but hadn't realized it yet."  
  
"I don't have any pictures of her that age. I was...otherwise occupied then." Irina swallowed, her control beginning to crack. "I missed so much, but always told myself there would be time. That there would be one day in the future that I'd have the chance to explain." She took a ragged breath as her tears began to flow. "I've run out of time, haven't I, Jack?"  
  
Any doubt that Jack had had about Irina's love for Sydney evaporated as he beheld one of the world's most feared crime bosses openly weeping over the picture of her daughter. Ruthlessly he suppressed the urge to wrap her in his arms and console her. She had made her own choices. As he was making his.   
  
"Irina."  
  
Irina continued to weep, ignoring him.  
  
"Irina!"  
  
She looked up, confused by his tone. Jack opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure where to start. Irina studied his face for a few seconds longer, then a spark of hope flared in her eyes. It was, Jack noted glumly, swiftly replaced by fury.  
  
"You b*stard," she hissed, slowly getting to her feet. "You faked this, didn't you?"  
  
Jack stood his ground as Irina advanced. "If you had bothered to tell me where you were I could have warned you," he replied indignantly.  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
"With Sloane," Jack answered, jaw clenched. It hurt just for him to say it.  
  
"How could you let that happen?" she demanded angrily.  
  
"How could I - ?" Jack was stunned by her attack, thrown off-balance. "How could I?" he repeated heatedly. "*You* knew that Francie was a double, you must have. Our daughter's closest friend, working for Sloane? And you did nothing? How did you imagine that was going to end?"  
  
"I had nothing to do with putting her in place," retorted Irina. "I was a guest of the CIA at the time. I couldn't do anything afterwards without compromising myself. Besides, weren't you the one who stood by while her fiancé was murdered? I don't think you're in any position to give me lectures."  
  
Jack could have strangled her in frustration. "I don't have time to argue about our relative parenting skills, given the *vast* amount of ground that we'd have to cover. The bottom line is that Sloane has her now."  
  
"What does he want?" Irina asked. Jack reflected grimly that of course she would ask that. Their world only dealt in deals, quids pro quos. "Not me..." she said to herself thoughtfully. "He wouldn't trust me. Again."   
  
No, thought Jack. Only one person was crazy enough to do that. "The Rambaldi artifacts...," he began hesitantly. He wanted to hear it from her.  
  
Irina sighed with irritation. "I finally had them, Jack. Or thought I did. And once we had gotten them from Arvin we could have finished him off at our leisure."   
  
"And set Sydney free," said Jack softly, finishing her thought. They had been so close. "It would have been nice if you had told me your plan first. In Panama," he said meaningfully. Any time that night, he thought to himself. God knows they hadn't slept much.  
  
"Would you have let me go?"  
  
"No," he admitted. "The risk -,"  
  
"...was worth the prize," finished Irina flatly.  
  
Jack glared at her. "I thought we were working together."  
  
"There are many different ways to work together," said Irina airily. "Which reminds me...you still haven't told me what Sloane wants."  
  
"Me. As a partner."  
  
"You. Of course. So what's your plan?"  
  
Jack licked his lips. "I leave the day after tomorrow," he replied, not meeting her eyes.  
  
"You're going to do it?" she asked, surprised.  
  
"And the other options are...?" Jack replied with irritation.  
  
Irina glanced at him in puzzlement. "I would have thought one of the first would have been to get Sydney back. And to then kill Sloane slowly and painfully."  
  
Jack bit his lip. "There's more that I haven't told you. Sydney's...badly hurt. She's in a coma, and needs intensive medical attention. Sloane's in a position to provide everything she needs. I," he glanced at her defiantly, "am not."  
  
"Well I am," snapped Irina. "And I can access those funds in hours. Despite how you feel about my maternal instincts."  
  
"No," said Jack quickly. "You can't do that."  
  
Irina cocked an eyebrow at him arrogantly.  
  
"Irina." Jack swallowed. "I...I've seen things. You know I'd do anything to keep her out of Sloane's hands. You have too many enemies to be tied down in that way. You'd only put yourself and Sydney at risk. This is the only option. Please."  
  
Irina looked at him thoughtfully for several seconds. What on earth had provoked that reaction? Deferring this particular puzzle until later, she asked, "Why did you fake her death?"  
  
"There was no other way to stop the search."  
  
Irina nodded, then looked up, appalled. "Vaughn?"  
  
"Thinks she's dead."  
  
"Jack!" she gasped. "That's cruel."  
  
Jack looked at her sardonically. "Yes," he agreed, "but I had no choice. He never would have let it go. And, after all," he continued softly, eyes glinting, "it's not like he'd loved her for 10 years, is it?"  
  
Irina had the grace to look away. After a moment, she asked, "How long for Sydney to recover?"  
  
"Months, years. No one can tell."  
  
"You know that if she recovers, and Vaughn has moved on-,"  
  
"I know," said Jack wearily. "She'll see it as another betrayal. But she'll be alive."  
  
Irina wondered how many more betrayals her daughter could tolerate. Another thought struck her. "You'll be really working with Sloane? No doubling?"  
  
Jack hesitated, then nodded, his face impassive. "The risks are too great," he said simply.  
  
Irina scrutinized him carefully. She had always been amazed by people who couldn't read his "poker face". His eyes were so expressive. And right now, watching them, she could almost drown in their anguish. "It won't be easy for you, Jack," she said quietly. "Are you sure?"  
  
Jack shrugged his shoulders impatiently, unwilling to say more. Her sympathy unnerved him more than he cared to admit. "You wouldn't understand," he blurted out.  
  
"Oh?" replied Irina dangerously, her body tensing.  
  
"Never mind," he muttered, suddenly finding himself in water much deeper than he had expected. He shifted uncomfortably and changed the subject. "Irina, there's something I need your help on."  
  
Irina gazed at him coolly.  
  
"You said there are many ways of working together," Jack said defensively. "Arvin and I, as partners - we could be dangerous. No one at Joint Ops understands how we think." He looked at Irina hopefully. Perhaps she would finish his thought.  
  
Irina looked at him blandly. "And?"   
  
Jack gave an exasperated growl. Of course she'd make him beg. "I need you to work with the CIA. To slow us down."  
  
Irina snorted in amusement. "I *really* enjoyed it last time, Jack. And Kendall and I make such a good team."  
  
"Irina, please. Do it on your own terms. Just do it."  
  
"Why? To ease your conscience?"  
  
"No. Sydney's."  
  
Irina looked at him thoughtfully. He was right, of course. Sydney would not be able to comprehend evil done in her name. Or that her parents would sell their souls to protect her. As Jack was about to. She nodded. It would be one less betrayal. And an opportunity to irritate Sloane. "But I have two conditions."  
  
"What?" Jack ground out. God, why did she always have conditions?  
  
"I want progress reports on Sydney. Monthly."  
  
Jack nodded.  
  
"And I need to know where she is," said Irina with finality.  
  
"No," Jack spat. "How do I know you won't try to come get her yourself?"  
  
"You don't," said Irina uncompromisingly. "But if something happens to you, it will just be Arvin and Sydney..." She paused to let Jack fill in the blanks.  
  
Jack turned abruptly and walked to the window, looking out, weighing her words. "Hong Kong," he finally replied. 


	6. Chapter 6

Jack reported to work at the Ops Center the next day, ignoring the surreptitious glances and subtle expressions of sympathy he encountered.  He found a renewed sense of purpose in the building, a commitment to tracking down Sloane and bringing him to justice.  Great, he thought caustically.  When Dixon stopped by his office, Jack didn't have the heart to brush him off.  He had, after all, been Sydney's partner.  

"Agent Bristow, I just wanted to say how very sorry I am about your loss.  Sydney was a remarkable person, a remarkable agent, a -," Dixon paused, momentarily overcome, then recovered, his voice shaking with barely suppressed rage.  "We will find Sloane, sir.  Maybe not this week, maybe not this month.  But no one in this office will rest until we do.  And then he'll pay for what he has done.  I. promise. you."

Looking into Dixon's eyes, Jack felt his heart sink.  First Diane, and now Sydney.   "Thank you, Dixon.  No one wants to capture Sloane more than I do," he said with feeling.  He shook Dixon's outstretched hand and then, ushering him out of the office, closed the door and sighed.  It didn't take much effort to imagine Dixon's reaction to Jack's upcoming career shift.

**

Jack and Sloane had discussed his exit strategy at length.  Jack had wanted to just disappear.  

"That's fine, Jack.  Why don't you go ahead and report here the day after the funeral?" responded Sloane neutrally.

Jack had looked at Sloane in surprise and relief.  He wasn't going to be forced into burning his bridges in some spectacular fashion on the way out?  How unusually considerate of Sloane.

"Actually, Jack," continued Sloane, as if reading Jack's mind, "I have something planned for the Ops Center anyway.  Something that will give us a couple of months of breathing room.

Jack felt his stomach churn in alarm.  "And what," he asked casually, "would that be, Arvin?"

Sloane smiled.  "Allison downloaded the Ops Center blueprints off of Tippin's account.  The ventilation shafts are surprisingly vulnerable.  I've got a team scheduled to load them up with enough explosive to flatten the Ops Center and everyone in it.  Unless," he said, his eyes glittering, "you have an alternative, Jack?"

Jack stood stock still, not a muscle moving in his face.  So that's how it would be.  Free will again, he thought to himself enraged.  Jack could take down the Ops Center – or Sloane would.  His way.  Damn Sloane for manipulating him into this.  He wouldn't just be burning his bridges – he'd be obliterating them.  

"Yes, I have an alternative," said Jack through clenched teeth after a moment.  "Almost as devastating, with the added benefit of thoroughly demoralizing the team."  But they'd be alive, Jack added to himself.

 "Excellent, Jack," purred Sloane. "I knew I could count on you."

**

Jack looked around his office.  He had, of course, had the ventilation shaft security upgraded the minute he had walked in the door.  What was he now, a triple agent?  He was losing track.  Stop stalling, Jack thought grimly to himself.  He opened up the door to his office and leant out.  "Marshall?" he called.  "Could you step in here a minute?"

Marshall came in diffidently.  "Yes sir?"  Jack winced inwardly as he surveyed Marshall's eager-to-please attitude.  It was like kicking a puppy.  "Sir, Agent Bristow, I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to speak to you in person yesterday.  Your daughter…your daughter…"  Jack watched, stunned, as Marshall stopped, seemingly at a loss for words.  Awkwardly, Jack reached out and patted him on the shoulder.

"Sydney was fond of you, too," said Jack gently.  And would hate her father even more for what he was about to do, he thought savagely to himself.

 "Marshall, I have a problem that I need you to work on, in confidence.  You know that we've been having problems with systems intrusions?" Jack asked.  Marshall nodded.  

"Frankly," Jack lowered his voice conspiratorially, "we suspect someone internally.  A mole. We have intel that there will be another system intrusion in 36 hours.  When that happens, I'd like the hacker to see our system, but one made of completely false data.  Scrambled names and numbers, mixed up pictures, maps that lead to nowhere.  Could you create something like that?"

Marshall glowed with pride.  "Sure I could.  Piece of cake.   Only problem is finding a spot to store the real data in the meantime."

"How much storage do you need?"

Marshall paused to consider.  "If I compress the data – about a gig."

"Why don't you download it onto my PC, then," said Jack smoothly.  "We'll take it offline.  That way you can work in my office unobserved and we'll know it will be safe." 

"Won't the rest of the people working here notice?  I mean, when they start seeing the fake data?  You can't do anything here without the system."

"Fortunately, we're expecting the hacker to try to enter in the middle of the night.  My plan is for it to be all over by the next morning."  

36 hours later, Jack gave the word to Marshall to move the real data off the system and replace it with the fake data.  The next morning, Marshall came in early, to move the data back.  There was yellow tape across Jack's office door.

"What's that?" he asked, gesturing at the tape to a security guard.

"Oh, there was a small electrical fire in Agent Bristow's office last night.  We caught it before it got out of control," the guard said reassuringly.

Marshall's hands started shaking as he moved towards the door.  "Hey, you can't go in there!" said the guard.  

Showing surprising resolve, Marshall shouldered him aside and opened the door.  The electrical fire had been in Jack's computer.  Numbly Marshall surveyed the blackened shell of what had recently been the sole residence of all the Task Force's reports, leads, email records, maps, photos…any data at all relating to Sloane or Rambaldi.  It would take months to recreate, if it could be recreated at all.

Marshall stumbled blindly back to his desk.  Propped up against his computer screen was an envelope, with his name on it, written in Jack's distinctive scrawl.  He fumbled as he opened it.

_Marshall – _

_You'll need this.  I'm sorry._

_Jack Bristow._

Attached to the note was a memo detailing Jack's orders to Marshall, with Jack's signature at the bottom.  Marshall crumpled the letter and began to sob.


	7. Chapter 7

Jack joined Sloane in Hong Kong the next day, knowing that he was now indeed past the point of no return. He felt...rudderless. Cut adrift. His moral compass was spinning in circles and there was nothing, and no one, to orient him. In a life without close friendships, he had valued the professional relationships he had developed, based on mutual respect. The sense of being on a team together, trying to achieve a worthwhile objective. It had grounded him during the turbulent years. That was gone now. He was playing for the other team.  
  
Who else was there? Sydney, in a coma. Not much interaction there. And Irina, of course. But Sloane would be watching him like a hawk for any sign of contact, any indication that Jack wasn't delivering as promised. No, he was unlikely to have any contact with Irina, verbal or otherwise, for some time. He was alone. His depression deepened.  
  
His first stop was to visit his daughter. It had been 5 days since he had seen her last, but progress was evident. A timely and welcome reminder of why he was there in the first place.  
  
"Mr. Bristow? I'm Dr. Walker, head of your daughter's medical team." A man in a white coat walked up to Jack. "We operated 3 days ago to reduce the swelling on her brain. I'm pleased to say that the operation was a success. We were able to take her off the ventilator yesterday; she's breathing on her own now."  
  
Jack felt a surge of hope. Perhaps this would be over soon. "When will she wake up?"  
  
The doctor shook his head. "It's still too soon to tell. We're monitoring her brain activity. It appears that we've prevented any permanent damage, but it could be some time before she regains consciousness."  
  
**  
  
"You'll understand, Jack, how important you are to what we're doing here," said Arvin, as he welcomed Jack. "I've made some modifications to your security protocols. You'll be accompanied every time you leave our operations base. To ensure that nothing happens to you, of course." Arvin smiled indulgently, as if Jack's safety was his most pressing concern.  
  
"Of course, Arvin," replied Jack evenly, his face not betraying his intense irritation. "Perhaps you'd like to accompany me for lunch? I know of a great Chinese restaurant that I haven't been to in years."  
  
**  
  
The next few months were relatively uneventful. Sloane would come to Jack with a problem and, after several sessions with Il Dire, Jack would tell him how to best solve it. There had been 3 coups in 3 separate African countries. There had been two corporate takeovers. Sloane now invisibly controlled the world's diamond supply - financing was no longer a concern.  
  
It had not escaped Sloane's notice that Jack had been working closely with Il Dire, and that his strategies consistently delivered the desired result with minimum loss of life. Sloane recognized this as a form of passive resistance, but shrugged inwardly. No one was perfect. As long as Jack delivered the results, he was doing his job. Still, a small test might be in order.  
  
Jack was, in fact, trying to understand Il Dire. He had demanded and been given unrestricted access to all the Rambaldi documents pertaining to the device. Not much of an owner's manual, he grumbled to himself. But the mathematical basis for Il Dire, which projected events and probabilities forward based on modified chaos theory for large groups of individuals, was stunning. He couldn't hope to understand the math. But he had concluded that, in some way, Il Dire was merging his own probability assessments of individual behavior with the machine's extrapolations of group behavior to forecast a result.  
  
And Jack, despite himself, was intrigued. He found that small, inconsequential actions could have significant impact. Was it true, he wondered? Did the flap of a butterfly's wings in Brazil really set off a tornado in Texas?"*  
  
Overcoming his deep-seated repugnance of all things Rambaldi, Jack experimented. He tried wild scenarios. He explored futures so outrageously improbable that he never would have believed them possible. And when he had successfully cornered the world market in diamonds for Sloane, he could not stifle his exhilaration.  
  
Sloane watched from afar, and was smugly satisfied. It had been Sydney who had brought Jack to him. Il Dire, he suspected, would keep him there.  
  
*******************************************  
  
*Footnote - Dr. Edward Lorenz, MIT, 1972, lecturing on chaotic non-linear systems 


	8. Chapter 8

Sloane's operations base moved frequently, but Jack was still able to visit Hong Kong once or twice a month to check on Sydney.  He was occasionally accompanied by Sloane, who continued to take a disconcertingly personal interest in Sydney's recovery.  Today's visit to Sydney's bedside had been hopeful, he reflected to himself as he placed his order at lunch.

_Sydney lay in her bed in the brightly lit room, looking almost peaceful as her medical team hovered over her.  The head physician had looked up as Jack entered and smiled.  "I have good news for you, Mr. Bristow.  We've been trying some experimental approaches with your daughter and we're starting to see progress."_

_"When will she wake up?" Jack asked eagerly._

_"Patience, Mr. Bristow.  We've started seeing some brain activity in an area that had previously been dormant.  It's not conclusive, but it is certainly encouraging."_

The fact that he had seen this all before was no longer alarming.  Jack was getting used to a high batting average.

As always, Jack and Sloane had stopped off for a meal at Jack's favorite restaurant afterwards.  Up until this point Jack had solely ordered Peking duck.  Today he was branching out to Moo-shu pork.  He looked forward to it with pleasure.

"Pass the plum sauce, Arvin."

**

Irina sat at the table of the chic Parisian café, sipping her coffee.  She perused Jack's latest order – Moo-shu pork– couriered to her from Hong Kong.  She smiled.  Sydney was still unconscious, but improving.  She had been getting very tired of seeing Peking duck.  She suspected Jack had been getting tired of eating it, too.

She casually glanced at her watch.   Kendall would have received her proposal 20 minutes ago.  Should be any minute-

Rring.

Gracefully Irina withdrew her cell phone from her pocket.  "Yes?" she answered casually.

"Where the hell are you?  And what kind of nerve do you have to pull this type of stunt?" she heard Kendall shout.  She put the phone down for a few minutes and took a few more sips of coffee, admiring the view.  When she was ready, she picked it up again.

"Are you done?" she inquired.  Sensing that Kendall was drawing another breath, she interjected sweetly, "What are your alternatives?"  Encouraged by his silence, she continued.  "You have nothing, Kendall.  No data, no leads.  Sloane and Bristow aren't just one step ahead of you; they're running circles around you.  Give me my own team and I'll slow them down enough to give you a chance."

"Give you a team!" he bellowed.  "Like hell I will."

Irina sighed and hung up.  She beckoned the waiter for her check.  

Rring.

"Yes?"

"How do I know I can trust you?" she heard Kendall spit out.  She closed her eyes.  She imagined his face was purple by now.

"You can't," she said simply.  "But Sloane killed my daughter.  Jack's helping him.  This has now become intensely personal for me.  I am willing to devote all my resources to stopping them.  Our interests are – for the time being – aligned."

"Don't pull that enemy-of-my-enemy-is-my-friend crap."

"Then I guess I'll just wish you good luck."  Irina hung up again and smiled apologetically at the waiter, who had been hovering nearby.  Leisurely she paid and stood up, catching the eye of her bodyguards.

Rring.

"Last chance, Kendall." 

"Fine.  But the team coordinates every move with the Ops Center."

"No."

"No?" came Kendall's outraged voice.  

Really, thought Irina, he was going to have a stroke. "Surely you can see what's happening," she explained patiently, as if to a child.  "Jack is predicting every move you'll make.  Flawlessly, I might add."  A small pucker formed between Irina's brows.  Jack was good, but she was a little surprised by how good he had been recently.  "You need a team to operate independently, spontaneously.  Outside of typical CIA protocols and procedures.  It's our only shot."  Irina waited patiently as Kendall digested the obvious truth.  And Irina's use of the pronoun "our".

"Fine."

"Fine what?"

"Fine, you can have the team and the immunity agreement," Kendall growled grudgingly.  "Immunity becomes permanent when you deliver Sloane and Bristow to me."

Irina smiled.  Finder's keeper's, she thought to herself.


	9. Chapter 9

"You want me to WHAT?" Jack demanded, outraged.

Jack had now been with him for 4 months.  Sloane had decided it was time for a small test.  He smiled thinly.  "You heard me, Jack.  I need a maximum effect terrorist event on US soil.  I need to divert the US authorities for a little while."

"Anything particular you had in mind?" asked Jack, his voice arctic.

"You're in charge of tactics.  But I need your answer in a week and I would think civilian body count would figure prominently in your calculations."

"And if I refuse?"

"Leave anytime you want, Jack," said Arvin, waving his hand dismissively.  "Just make sure you take Sydney with you."

Sloane watched as Jack stalked angrily out of the room.  He suspected he knew where Jack was heading.

**

Jack stood by Sydney's bedside, holding her hand disconsolately.  The long flight to Hong Kong had been one steady internal battle, and Jack was weary.  He had raged against fate, raged against the choices he had made in his life that now placed him in this position.  He wanted to talk to Sydney, to explain, but he knew that even if she were conscious she wouldn't understand.

Mockingly he recalled the old joke about a man and a woman at a party.

_Man: "Madam, would you sleep with me for a million dollars?"_

_Woman: "Why, yes, sir!"_

_Man: "Madam, would you sleep with me for a dollar?"_

_Woman, offended: "I am not a whore, sir!"_

_Man: "We have already established what you are, madam. We are just negotiating the price."_

Sloane had established what he was.  What was his price? Jack wondered bitterly.

**

Jack walked back into Sloane's office one week later and slapped a file onto his desk.  "Here's your strategy.  Maximum effect," he said coldly.

Sloane watched Jack closely.  His face gave nothing away, but the tightness of his jaw suggested how much effort it was taking for him to maintain control.  Sloane picked up the file and began to review it.  His eyebrows shot up.  "A nuclear plant?"

"Indian Point, NY.  20 million people within a 50 mile radius," Jack said tersely.  "A minor incident there would create wide-spread panic on the Eastern Seaboard."

"Not exactly a soft target," mused Sloane considering.   "Security there would be Level One."

Jack shrugged.  "But penetrable.  It's all there.  It would work.  And certainly divert US authorities."

Sloane flipped through the file.  It was indeed all there.  Estimated civilian casualties – 5000.  He could hardly contain his glee.  He had no intention of using it, of course.  Even he had his limits.  But that Jack had provided it – there was no question about it, Sloane thought to himself.  Jack was in all the way. 

Sloane looked back up at Jack.  "Good work, Jack.  But our priorities have shifted.  We no longer need this diversion."  He passed the file back.  "Maybe another time."

Back in his office, Jack slumped into his chair in relief.  The bluff had worked.  Even Sloane had limits.  It must have been a test.  Carefully he shredded the Indian Point file.  

Then, with shaking hands, he unlocked his bottom drawer and pulled out the file that he had truly dreaded giving Sloane, the backup in case Sloane had called his bluff.  Explosion at a shopping mall in suburban Los Angeles.  Estimated casualties – 85.  Hastily he crammed that file, too, into the shredder, then put his head in his hands.


	10. Chapter 10

Sloane eyed Jack critically as he entered the office and sighed to himself. Bristow was suffering from another massive hangover. Not surprising, really, thought Sloane to himself, reviewing Security's report in his mind. Any human being imbibing the quantity of alcohol that Jack had the previous evening was lucky to be standing upright the next day.  
  
He had only himself to blame. He had pushed Jack too hard, too fast. Damn Bristow's sense of morality. It was taking longer to wear him down than Sloane had initially estimated. Not that Jack refused any assignment. He had not even threatened to since that little test several months ago. He was just taking it - well, all too personally, Sloane felt. Six billion people on the planet - a few less really did not make a difference.  
  
At least Jack was still reporting to work. Although, if he tracked true to form, in several weeks that would be in doubt as well. Sydney, Sloane remembered, had been the one to snap Jack out of it last time. Coming home from school and stumbling over Jack, passed out in the front hallway. That wasn't an option this time. Jack was going to have to pull himself out of this spiral himself. Or Sloane's prize asset would become a liability.  
  
**  
  
Jack leaned heavily on the bar and attempted to get the attention of the bartender, who appeared to be studiously ignoring him. Was he being shut off? But he had just gotten here, hadn't he? Blearily, Jack surveyed the empty glasses stacked in front of him. Time to find a new bar.  
  
"Is this seat taken?" purred a voice close to Jack's ear. He looked up in confusion as a spectacular redhead perched on the seat next to his, not waiting for his answer.   
  
"You're new here, aren't you?" she asked. Jack tried to concentrate on his answer, slightly distracted by the hand sliding up his thigh.  
  
"Yeah," was his articulate response.  
  
"Want to buy me a drink?" she suggested.  
  
This was easier. "Can't," said Jack simply. He gestured at the bartender, who continued to ignore him.  
  
"I might have...a little something...up in my room," she whispered in his ear, her hand now fondling his groin. "Private stock. Want to check?"  
  
The very small portion of Jack's brain that was still functioning urged caution, but was overruled. "Yeah," he choked out. He stood up unsteadily and followed her up the stairs, holding onto the railing for support.  
  
This should be fun, thought the Security minder to himself as he watched Jack stagger after the hooker. He probably can't even untie his own shoes. He spoke softly into his mike, then settled in for a long evening.  
  
**  
  
Jack stood bemused, watching as the redhead swiftly undressed him. She was still fully clothed. At some level, this did not make sense. "Clothes," he said indistinctly, pointing at her.  
  
"First things first," she said cheerfully, walking around behind him.  
  
Jack felt the cold steel of handcuffs tighten around his wrists. "Uh-oh," he said, faint alarm bells going off inside his head.  
  
"Got it in one, Bristow."  
  
Jack was helpless to resist as she pinched his nose and forced a foul tasting liquid down his throat. The predictable physical reaction was almost instantaneous. "Help," he gasped.  
  
The redhead steered him rapidly towards the bathroom, then forced him to his knees in front of the toilet, where Jack thoroughly emptied his stomach of its contents. Several times.  
  
"Done?" inquired the redhead, reaching over to turn on the shower.  
  
Jack nodded in relief.  
  
"Good," she said briskly, then propelled him into the shower stall.  
  
Jack gasped as the freezing cold water hit him, but was unable to back away, as the redhead grabbed his hair and tilted his face up into the spray. "Stop," he spluttered, when she briefly let him come up for air. The only response he received was to have his face plunged once more into the cold spray.   
  
As conscious thought began to return, Jack's linguistic abilities revived, rewarding his assailant, when he could get a breath, with a creative and wide-ranging series of invective. His struggles became more powerful, but with his hands cuffed, and a shower floor that had thoughtfully been soaped in advance, he was at a disadvantage against the iron grip that held him.  
  
Finally, and without warning, he was pulled out of the shower and shoved, stumbling, back into the room. He whirled on his attacker, preparing to defend himself, only to narrow his eyes as he was finally able to focus properly.  
  
"You!" he spat in fury. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"  
  
Irina surveyed her naked, damp, and shivering husband, and smiled. "Hello, Jack. Missed me?" 


	11. Chapter 11

Jack cursed her, long and fluently, then winced as his head began to throb.  
  
"Bad, is it?" asked Irina, with sympathy. "Sit down, and drink this." She poured a hot, steaming drink from a thermos.  
  
Jack sniffed it suspiciously, then nodded. Coffee, with a few other things thrown in. "Unlock the handcuffs," he snapped as he staggered into a chair.  
  
Irina stepped back and surveyed him. "What will you do with your hands free?"  
  
"Probably strangle you," admitted Jack, not feeling up to lying.  
  
"Thought so," said Irina. "We'll keep them on for the time being." She approached him with the coffee, and gestured for him to drink from the cup. He pulled his head back abruptly.  
  
"Unh uh. You think I trust you to pour hot coffee down my throat? Without spilling?" Jack gestured downward with his eyes, a meaningful expression on his face.  
  
Irina sighed with exasperation. "Stop being such a baby." But she fetched a hand towel from the bathroom and laid it over his lap. Once more she lifted the cup and held it carefully while Jack sipped, neither saying a word as he slowly regained his strength. After two cups he pulled back his head and indicated he was done.  
  
"Better?" she asked, concern in her voice.  
  
Jack nodded.   
  
"Alright then, you idiot," Irina hissed angrily, her manner changing abruptly. "What the hell are you playing at?"  
  
"What am *I* playing at?" asked Jack incredulously. "Can I remind you that *I'm* the one who's been assaulted for the last 30 minutes?"  
  
"When you crawl into a bottle it takes some effort to pull you out," replied Irina tightly. "I needed to talk to you. Sober. It looked like it was going to be a long wait."  
  
"I'm 54 years old. You are my *ex*-wife. I fail to see how a 1-night binge is any concern of yours."   
  
"Oh, but it's not a 1-night binge, is it Jack?" replied Irina in a low, dangerous voice. "Almost two months. Rotating bars so that the bartenders won't recognize you. Carried home 8 times by your security detail."  
  
A dull flush crept up Jack's neck as he absorbed the accuracy of Irina's information. "You've been having me followed?" he demanded, incensed. "Why? Wanted to see who I've been sleeping with?"   
  
Irina smiled derisively. "Nice try, Jack. The state you've been in, it would be the easiest money a whore ever earned," she said, eyes flicking mockingly towards his lap.  
  
"Enough!" Jack roared, his face now scarlet. "Unlock these cuffs and get the hell out of here!"   
  
"Oh no, Jack. Not *enough*. We're just getting started," taunted Irina.  
  
Jack lunged out of the chair in fury, trying to knock her down. She easily sidestepped him and clipped him on the head as he went by. He staggered but kept his footing and wheeled, facing her once again. One of his feet shot out, but Irina was no longer there. In one smooth motion she dodged his blow and countered with her own, connecting with his knee. With a grunt of pain, Jack collapsed to the floor, breathing heavily.  
  
"Nice reaction time," she said sarcastically. She hauled him to his feet and forced him to face the mirror. "Look at yourself, dammit. Bloodshot eyes." She grabbed a newly formed roll of fat around his middle. "Out of shape." She spun him to face her. "And not the head of the class anymore, are you Bristow? We were married for 10 f*cking years and you didn't recognize me in disguise."   
  
With a shove she deposited him heavily back in the chair. "You. ass." she spat. "If Kendall catches you, which right now he could do with one hand tied behind his back, you'll spend the rest of your life in prison. If Sloane writes you off as a security risk, which you are, you're dead."  
  
She stepped back, surveying Jack, his expression mulish. "I'll ask you one more time. What are you playing at?"  
  
Jack was silent for a long moment. "You wouldn't understand," he muttered rebelliously, not meeting her eyes. "Get the hell out of here and leave me alone."  
  
Irina's jaw clenched. "Wouldn't understand?" she repeated tensely. "I understand a hell of a lot better than you think, Jack."   
  
She leaned over him and spoke so softly that he had to strain to hear her. "It started when you made that one decision to protect Sydney, a betrayal of everything you were to protect the one person most dear to you. And you convinced yourself that the pain, the searing pain that was turning you inside out, would soon be over." She saw his eyes, startled, following her. "But it didn't end, did it? Because each day you woke up, knowing you'd have to betray yourself once more. And after a while, you were willing to do anything to deaden the pain, even for a while, because you knew that when you woke up the next morning, it would start all over again."  
  
She took a step back and regarded him somberly. "And that's why you were drinking tonight, wasn't it? To forget. Because tomorrow it starts all over again."  
  
Jack stared at her, stunned. "How did you - ,"   
  
"Know? You wouldn't understand," came Irina's terse reply.   
  
Jack didn't respond immediately. When he finally spoke, Irina could barely hear him. "I didn't know it would be so hard," he said in a low voice. "I'd been through so much before..." He didn't elaborate on the 'before'. "But the things I've done..." He looked up, mingled pain and confusion in his eyes. "Will...will it ever get easier?" Jack asked quietly.  
  
Irina exhaled slowly. "You don't want it to become easier, Jack. If it becomes easier you've lost who you are. After a while...after a while you'll begin to treasure the pain as a reminder that you haven't yet died inside, that you're different from those around you."   
  
She leaned closer again and said with intensity. "But you can survive it. You *will* survive it. You have a future, Jack. Fight back. Don't. give. up."  
  
Jack looked at her bitterly. "Easy for you to say. Fight for my future? I'm now a wanted criminal that can expect the death penalty if I step back into the US. Sydney, when she wakes up...," his voice trailed off as an arrested expression appeared on his face, "...will hate me for what I've done," he said slowly, looking at Irina as if seeing her for the first time.  
  
Irina returned his gaze steadily. "No, it was not easy for me to say."   
  
"Oh, God," breathed Jack.   
  
"I might understand," she agreed sardonically  
  
Silence stretched between them.  
  
"I'm sorry," Jack whispered.  
  
"Me, too," she responded quietly, gently squeezing his shoulder. "Just don't forget - you're not alone. We're in this together." Irina began gathering her things in preparation to leave.   
  
Jack watched her wistfully. "Irina?"  
  
She paused and looked up.  
  
"Don't go yet. Please." 


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note**

To conform with this fic's PG-13 rating, the first part of this chapter was heavily edited.  If you'd like to see it in its entirety, go to _www.sd-1.com_.

*********************************************************

_"Don't go yet.  Please."_

Irina looked enquiringly at Jack.

"I'd like to…could you…could we just stay and talk for a while?" Jack finished uncomfortably.  

Irina shook her head.  "I don't think I can do that, Jack," she said tightly, bending down to finish her packing.

"Why not?" he asked, heart sinking.  So soon.  He would be alone again, so soon.  

Irina looked up, a last time, and Jack could see the tension etched across her face.  "Because you're sitting in front of me wet, naked, and handcuffed," she snapped waspishly.  "And I'm not sure I can be responsible for my actions much longer."

Jack gaped at her with an open mouth, then taking in the heat in her gaze as her eyes raked his body, said in a strangled voice, "W-We wouldn't have to talk."

"Oh?" she said silkily, and advanced on him.  "What else did you have in mind?"

Jack swallowed.  "Anything you'd like.  Within reason," he hastily added, noting the look in her eye.

**

Sometime later, the Security minder paused for a second, listening at the door, and whistled in silent admiration.  Sh*t-faced as he had been, Bristow seemed to be doing just fine.  And was certainly getting his money's worth.

**  
"A hooker?" Sloane repeated, dumbfounded, to his Security head. "Jack Bristow slept with a hooker last night?"   
  
The man nodded. "Stayed with her until 5am, then walked home under his own power.  Whistling."

"You're sure it wasn't a contact?"

"According to his minder, he was plastered when the hooker first approached him.  You'd have to agree, sir, it would be unlikely that Bristow would make a contact drunk.  There'd be too much risk.  Besides," the man cleared his throat uncomfortably, "our agent verified the nature of the activity occurring in the room.  It was, er, quite convincingly consistent."  
  
"Very well. Thank you for bringing it to my attention." Sloane watched pensively as his head of Security left his office. Standing orders were to report behavior out of character for any of Sloane's upper echelon. This certainly qualified, thought Sloane. As far as he knew, it was a first. Perhaps, he reflected, it was the beginning of the end for Jack Bristow.   
  
"Excuse me, Arvin." Speak of the devil, thought Sloane irritably. He waved Jack in. He considered mentioning the events of the previous evening, but didn't know where to start.  
  
"Arvin, I owe you an apology."  
  
Sloane's head snapped up and he examined Jack more carefully. No signs of a hangover, and Jack was looking more clear-eyed than he had in months.   
  
"I've had some difficulty dealing with the stress of Sydney's illness and I'm afraid I slipped into some bad habits. If I've disappointed you in any way, I apologize. I can assure you it won't happen again."  
  
Arvin waved his hand casually, as if he hadn't noticed. "No hard feelings, Jack. Thank you for coming to me. You know I'm always here if you need to talk to someone."  
  
_Yeah, right, thought Jack_. "Thank you, Arvin. Unless there's anything else, I have some work to catch up on." Jack turned and headed out of the office.  
  
Sloane watched him go, bemused. Who would have thought that all Jack Bristow needed was a good f*ck?


	13. Chapter 13

Irina's visit galvanized Jack into action. Even with his hands tied behind his back, he thought grimly, he should be able to handle Sloane.  He was a strategist, one of the best in the world.  Looking back over the past few months with disgust, he realized that he had not even attempted to critically assess his own situation.  Sloane had been pulling all the strings; Jack was tired of being a puppet.  _Fight back._  

Sloane had Sydney.  But Jack had Il Dire.

Jack applied himself tirelessly to every task that Sloane assigned him.  His recommended strategies were creative; his tactics brilliant; his results demonstrable.  It was just too bad, he thought to himself with one of his first flashes of humor in months, that he couldn't be everywhere.

Because Sloane was starting to run into trouble.  Unforeseen problems began to pop up in unexpected places.  Jack would be assigned to work a strategy concentrated on arms traffic through the Ukraine, and Sloane's Central American operation would founder.  Sloane would assign Jack to fix the Central American operation and a critical negotiation with an Asian drug lord would fail.  It was amazing, Jack thought to himself, how undetectable actions on his part could trigger major problems for Sloane.  With the help of Il Dire he had released a few butterflies.

After several months, Sloane concluded the obvious.

"Come in, Jack, come in," instructed Sloane, waving Jack into his office.  

Jack casually took a seat and looked at Sloane, cocking an eyebrow.  It was Arvin's meeting; he'd let him take the lead.

"Nice job in Poland," Sloane began.

"Thanks," said Jack briefly.  He waited for Sloane to move to the real purpose of the meeting.  Positive feedback had never been one of Sloane's management skills.

"Jack, I'm beginning to find that the breadth of my current operation is such that I can no longer manage it alone.  I'm spending all my time fighting fires."

Jack made half-hearted noises of sympathy.

"I think it's time," said Sloane, "for you to take a bigger role."

**

Finally, Jack thought.  Sloane had given him access to his global operations.  Jack's strategy was a deceptively simple one – protect Sloane until Sydney recovered, and then ensure that Sloane's entire operation came crashing down from within.  Understanding the full scope of Sloane's operations let Jack, with the assistance of Il Dire, create plans that would be enormously successful in the short term for Sloane while creating a long-term weakness he would never suspect.

He spent the following several weeks developing alternate strategies, but always came up against the same roadblock.  Any strategy for the future was predicated on the timing of Sydney's recovery.  It not only marked Jack's escape, but also signaled the date when he could begin moving against Sloane with impunity.

He needed some help.  _Il Dire_.  
  
The more experienced Jack became with Il Dire, the more electrical stimulation his brain  could tolerate and the farther out he could look into the future. The further out he went, of course, the more scenarios there were to evaluate, the more variables to assess, and the longer the sessions. He was now stretching up to a year out, working on some of Sloane's more long-range plans. He could do the same with his own.

He lay exhausted one day on the table, at the end of a session, rubbing his eyes in despair. Every option he had looked at, 1 year out, still had Sydney in a coma.   
  
"Crank it up," he said to the technician. "I want to go to 18 months out."  
  
"I don't know, Mr. Bristow," said the technician uneasily. "The doctors haven't cleared you for that yet." Jack was beginning to experience physical limits to the amount of time he could spend merged with Il Dire; too much time and he would end up the session weak and disoriented. The doctors had told him that his body needed time to build up its tolerance. Jack was tired of waiting.  
  
"Do it," Jack ordered.  
  
"10 minutes only, Mr. Bristow," replied the technician, looking nervously at Jack's vital signs.  
  
Jack lay back again, trying to clear his mind. Dear God, let him find an option. He would do anything.  His frustration mounted as once more he began to run through futures with Sydney lying unconscious in a hospital bed.  Then -   
  
_Sydney lay on the pavement, struggling to stand. Weakly she got to her feet and looked around confused. She staggered to a phone booth and placed a call. "This is officer 2300844, calling for connection. Confirmation: looking glass."_

_"Stand by," said a woman's voice at the other end of the line._

_"This is Kendall."_

_"I just woke up in Hong Kong. I don't know how long I've been here or how I got here."_

_Pause. "Hello?" Sydney repeated._

_"Get to our safe house at Tsimshatsui as quickly as possible. You remember how to get there?" asked Kendall._

_"Of course I do," said Sydney, puzzled._

_"I'll make sure they're expecting you."_

Jack almost leapt off the table in astonished joy. He had found it.


	14. Chapter 14

"Time to shut down, Mr. Bristow."

"No!" shouted Jack, attempting to quell his panic. "Just a couple more minutes." He couldn't lose it.  He needed to trace this future back, find the divergent path…

"Sir, you know the time limits are important."

Jack pulled his gun and aimed it at the technician. "Don't. Touch. Anything." The technician fled the room. He lay back again, holding onto the memory. Follow it backwards…to the critical point in the timeline where it diverged from the others…there.  17 months out.

_"Sir, I have reports of hostile infiltration in the basement."_

_"What's the size of the team?"_

_"Small, but they appear to be heavily armed. Security protocol is for us to evacuate you and Il Dire immediately by helicopter. Sloane's orders."_

_"I'm staying." _Jack felt a thrill. That was it. If he stayed…he looked forward a little more.

_ Searing pain burned through Jack's body as he spun and fell to the ground. He felt a burst of warmth and looked down to see bright red blood gushing out of his chest. The bullet must have nicked an artery, Jack thought hazily to himself, futilely groping to put pressure on it to stem the bleeding. He heard shouts around him, and running feet, before being swallowed by darkness.  
_  
Darkness? he thought with alarm.  _Darkness._  
  
He skipped all the way forward again, 18 months out. _"This is officer 2300844, calling for connection."_  
  
And back. _Darkness._  
  
"Jack."  
  
Jack looked around in a daze, and saw the technician had returned with Sloane.  
  
"Threatening our employees is not good business practice," drawled Sloane as the technician hurried over to disconnect Jack from Il Dire. Sloane studied Jack carefully. "Anything wrong?" he asked casually.  
  
Numbly, Jack shook his head. "I…I just needed to finish what I was doing. I guess I got a little carried away." He forced a shaky laugh. As he got up and stumbled out of the room, he could feel Sloane's gaze on him, thoughtful.

**  
  
Do you want the good news or the bad news Bristow? Jack asked himself humorlessly during his third double scotch that night. The good news is that Sydney recovers. He toasted her long and happy life with a deep swallow, the pale nectar sliding easily down his throat. The bad news? You won't get a chance to see it. Unerringly he hurled his glass against the brick fireplace, shattering it into pieces, mingling with its predecessors.

_"You have a future, Jack."_  Jack laughed harshly.  There would be a future.  Just not his.  He picked up the half-empty Scotch bottle and twirled it in his hands, watching the light of the fireplace refract in seductive golden shafts through the liquid.  With an oath he raised the bottle and smashed it, too, against the fireplace.  He would survive.  As long as he needed to.


	15. Chapter 15

( 9 months post-The Telling)  
  
It was, Jack mused with more perspective the next morning, as if he had been told he had cancer. 17 months to live. He was not afraid of dying; with hindsight he knew that he had positively courted death a number of times over the past 20 years. There hadn't been much to lose then, and there was even less to lose now. If his death somehow triggered events that allowed Sydney to recover - well, many parents he knew would make the same decision.   
  
And of course, the certain knowledge that this nightmare could end - would end - was a relief. Sydney's recovery was now within his control.   
  
It was just that he had 17 months to live, but couldn't spend the time putting his affairs in order, or visiting with family and friends, or traveling to the places he'd always wanted to see. He couldn't even put a gun in his mouth.  
  
He had to spend his last 17 months protecting Sloane and his operation.  
  
A gun in the mouth would have been preferable.  
  
**  
  
Something was different. Sloane could not put his finger on it, but Jack was different. Focused. Driven. Perhaps giving him broader authority had been good for him. Certainly, things were now running much more smoothly.  
  
And Sloane was gratified to see that Phase 2 of his Jack Bristow plan was on track. Jack's tolerance for mistakes, never high at the best of times, had most recently gone to zero; he was now spending almost half of each day on Il Dire, checking and double-checking his strategies to ensure they were perfect. Il Dire's infallibility was a siren's song irresistible to a strategist like Jack.  
  
Sloane had known that using Sydney's illness as a stick would only work for so long; he was counting on Il Dire becoming Jack's carrot. Just a little bit more time, he thought pensively. He felt a small prickling of conscience, which was promptly squashed.  
  
**  
  
Jack picked at his plate of Peking duck. Today's visit with Sydney had been difficult. She was stable but progress had halted. Being with her today had forcibly reminded him of his failures that had put her in this position. Project Christmas. His withdrawal from her as she grew up. His association with Sloane. His inability to identify Francie as the mole.  
  
Failure to anticipate. Failure to see all the options. Blindness to the treachery around him.   
  
Il Dire could have prevented it all.  
  
Jack looked back on his earlier days, when he had thought himself the omniscient tactician, with scorn. All that time wasted on contingency plans in case something went wrong. Having to depend on the reactions of field operatives to improvise a new solution on the spot. How much more could he have achieved by simply being right all the time?  
  
The strategies required to ensure that he and Sydney arrived at that one point in the future together, and Sloane's world came crashing down shortly afterwards, were by far the most complex and wide-ranging he had ever developed. No opportunity for error.  
  
He could hardly wait to get back.  
  
**  
  
Jack's headset crashed to the table. It had happened again.  
  
"You didn't see this coming?" Sloane demanded.  
  
Jack shook his head with fury. "No. The main CIA force reacted exactly as we expected, securing the perimeter and trying to protect the bystanders. Then a rogue team appeared and made a beeline for the device. If it had been live, instead of a dummy...," he shook his head again, this time in amazement. "The only thing that would have been left would have been a crater."  
  
"Dammit, Jack, this is the 3rd operation in 3 months that's failed. You had better-,"  
  
"Sir, we've got the satellite feed coming in now," said a technician, interrupting.  
  
Sloane and Jack huddled over the computer screen, trying to understand what had gone wrong. Jack pointed. "There. That's the team. Standard CIA protocol should have them over here," he gestured. "Instead, they -,"  
  
"Wait a minute." Sloane looked closer. "Zoom in on that team." He waited while the technician complied. "Now on their team leader," he said, pointing. Again, the technician obliged.   
  
Jack sucked his breath in, but said nothing. Sloane was not as reticent. "Wouldn't you know it," he said acidly. "My radar has a blind spot. You've *never* been able to predict that woman." He turned to Jack and snarled, "Give me a strategy that takes her out." He turned on his heel and left the room. 


	16. Chapter 16

Jack lay on the table, thinking, while the technician hooked him up to Il Dire. Was there a fundamental flaw in Il Dire's design, one that Rambaldi had not perceived? If Il Dire was merging the machine's forecasts of group behavior with his own probability assessments of individual behavior, how dependent was the overall result on Jack's ability to predict the individual? To predict Irina? He laughed softly to himself. The human that could predict Irina's behavior hadn't been born yet.   
  
"Three months out," he instructed the technician.  
  
Jack consciously relaxed, trying to visualize his wife. The futures he saw were as he had suspected. There was no strategy he could put together that would stop Irina. Maddening, because he couldn't afford many mistakes over the coming months. Ironic, because he had begged her to do it in the first place. Of his own free will.   
  
Two hours later he sat up and stretched. The time had gone by quickly. Watching Irina's futures was alternately amusing and exasperating, but constantly stimulating. Very similar to being with Irina herself, he reflected. He allowed himself a small smile as the technician turned away, then lay back down again to finish. Not much longer.  
  
His body suddenly went rigid with fear. That son-of-a-b*tch. Jack's hands clenched, then slowly uncurled. It looked like he would be in for a long session with Il Dire.  
  
The next day he reported back to Sloane.  
  
"What is it?" asked Sloane irritably as Jack came into his office.  
  
"Irina," came the brief reply.  
  
"You have a strategy ready?" asked Sloane, slightly mollified.  
  
"No."  
  
"No?"  
  
"I don't have a strategy because, according to Il Dire, there is no way we can neutralize her. At least over the short-term."  
  
"I find that hard to believe," snarled Sloane.  
  
"Do you? She knows us both, and the way we think, exceptionally well. The probability of our laying a trap for her that she does not anticipate - well, Il Dire wasn't impressed."  
  
"What if we told her that Sydney was alive and we had her?"  
  
Jack cocked an eyebrow enquiringly at Sloane. "She's been mourning Sydney's death now for 6 months. Are you sure you want to be around when she finds out we were lying?"  
  
"Maybe not," muttered Sloane.  
  
"Anyway, that's only the bad news."  
  
"There's good news?" asked Sloane skeptically.  
  
"Nothing she does over the next year will have any significant impact on our ability to operate. She'll slow us down, but she's unable to prevent you from achieving your tactical objectives."  
  
"Very well," Sloane growled. Dismissed, Jack left the office. He knew he'd be quite busy over the next few weeks.  
  
Aggravated, Sloane watched Jack leave. Nothing would work against Irina? Bullsh*t. Il Dire clearly wasn't an accurate predictor of Irina's behavior; perhaps it wasn't much of a predictor of her future lifespan, either. Sloane picked up the phone and made a call. No point in bothering Jack with this. 


	17. Chapter 17

(14 months post-The Telling)  
  
Sloane slammed down the phone in anger. The third attempt on Irina's life in the past 2 months had just failed. In fact it had failed so spectacularly that he had just lost 5 of his best operatives - 2 dead; 3 currently being interrogated by the CIA. Intel reported that Irina had been slightly injured in the last attempt, but this gave Sloane little comfort.   
  
What a monumental waste of effort and resources. Bristow had been right, and Sloane was nothing if not pragmatic. To hell with it. He'd just have to grit his teeth and ignore her.  
  
**  
  
Carefully Irina shifted her left leg from the floor to the footstool in front of her easy chair. Only a flesh wound, but it hurt like the blazes all the same. Damn Sloane. She wished he would give up already. She wasn't quite sure how much longer she had until her luck ran out.  
  
The last attack, on a dacha in Russia that she would have sworn was known to no one, had shaken her more than she wished to admit. It was where she would have chosen to take Sydney, had Jack let her assume her care. Had she been pinned down trying to rescue Sydney, she never would have escaped alive. Nor would have Sydney. Damn Jack too for always being right.  
  
Irina was now recuperating in her villa in the south of France, taking a break for the first time in a year. The CIA team was also taking a well-earned vacation. Her own staff, heavily armed, superbly trained, and recently augmented, would provide more than sufficient security while she was in residence.  
  
She heard a step behind her. Armand must be back with her tea.  
  
"Your tea, madam." Irina almost jumped out of her chair at the familiar voice with the faux French accent, and whirled around to see Jack standing holding a tray. With her tea.   
  
"What the - ow!" she finished, as her leg slid off the footstool. Swiftly Jack put down the tray and moved over to her leg, gently moving it back into position.  
  
Irina leaned back with a sigh of relief, then stiffened as Jack's fingers carefully unwound the bandage and explored the wound. Satisfied, he bound it back up.  
  
"What do you think you're doing?" she asked with asperity. "And where is your baby sitter?" And my crack staff, she muttered to herself.  
  
"Checking on you," he answered easily. "My Security minder is, er, indisposed. Picked up a touch of Montezuma's revenge going through Mexico City. Can you imagine?" Jack gave her an innocent look.  
  
Irina rolled her eyes. "Nice of you to check," she said sarcastically. "Was it your op that almost got me killed? If we hadn't gotten lucky..."  
  
"No," said Jack. "The op was Sloane's. The luck," he finished enigmatically, "was mine." His eyes flickered darkly as he glanced at her leg. "Sorry about that. It was the best I could do."  
  
Irina looked at him, puzzled. "You ran a counter-mission?"  
  
"In a manner of speaking," said Jack, unwilling to go into details. "Sloane won't bother you again."  
  
"You're sure?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Irina gave a sigh of relief, then tensed, affronted. "So he's not taking me seriously?" she demanded. "I can fix that."  
  
Jack smiled at the fierceness in her tone. "Take your best shot, Irina. Just remember -,"  
  
"I know, I know," she grumbled. "I can't touch you or Sloane." She looked down and noticed that Jack still had her leg in his hands, and was gently stroking it. "Jack, how's Sydney?"  
  
"No change," he said evenly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture. "I brought you this."  
  
Irina reached eagerly for the photo, then stilled as she absorbed it, her face whitening. It was a picture of Sydney, unconscious, hooked up to monitors and fluids in her hospital bed. Her eyes flew to Jack as she bit her lip. "It must be...difficult to actually see her like this."  
  
Jack nodded, lips clenched. "She'll get better," he said with finality.  
  
"I hope so too," Irina whispered.  
  
"Irina, I can't stay." The regret in Jack's eyes was apparent. "But I wanted to thank you for what you did for me. Forceful as it was," he finished ruefully.  
  
"As I recall," Irina said, eyes dancing, "you thanked me pretty thoroughly at the time."  
  
Jack smiled teasingly. "Oh? I'd forgotten," he lied, ducking as Irina aimed her good leg at him. He stood up and bent over her, kissing her gently, his lips lingering on hers. "Until next time. Be careful," he said in a low voice.   
  
"Until next time," Irina agreed softly, her eyes following him as he left. 


	18. Chapter 18

( 17 months post-The Telling)

Weeks passed.  Irina recovered and redoubled her efforts.  Sloane was infuriated; Jack was sanguine.  He had given up trying to anticipate her next move.  Instead he could, and did, build redundancy into all his strategies.  Virtually every key objective could be achieved via multiple paths; every time Irina slammed a door shut on him, another would open.  And, just like that, he thought to himself smugly, he was infallible again.

Of course, this made the complexity of his strategies grow exponentially.  He had to achieve Sloane's objectives.  He had to build in the seeds of Sloane's collapse.  He needed to steer them all to Sydney's recovery.  He couldn't make any mistakes. And now every strategy needed an alternate path.

Thank God for Il Dire, Jack thought to himself as he lay back down on the table with relief. He looked around the basement lab.  He should just go ahead and move his desk down here.  He could now tolerate up to 10 hours a day; he needed almost every single minute of it to stay ahead of Irina.

He wondered idly how she was reacting.

**

Irina's gun butt slammed into the computer monitor.  The technician leapt back, alarmed, as glass shards showered his desk.  "I-I'm sorry," he stuttered, "I was just trying to show you-"

"-that we won the battle and lost the war.  Again," said Irina through clenched teeth.  The mission had been a total success, flawlessly executed.  Her team had just secured the laboratory and research records for a new surveillance technology, one that would be of immediate and devastating use against Sloane.  And in the middle of her team's celebration had come satellite footage of the technology's lead scientist being kidnapped from his home.  No doubt, she seethed, he would be coughing up the system's vulnerabilities in hours.

Damn Jack. She had eavesdropped on his strategy planning sessions for 10 years and he had *never* been this good.

**

Jack's mood was low as he finished off the day's session.  It had been almost 3 months since he had seen Irina; "Until next time," could easily translate into "Never again."  He knew he wouldn't be able to dodge his Security detail again, couldn't risk Sloane's becoming suspicious as he was getting so close to the end.  Less than a year, now.

Never again…he shifted on the table, considering.  What the hell, he thought to himself.  He'd check her future again to make sure no more threats loomed.  And if he vicariously enjoyed watching her – it would be an innocent perk.

"18 months," he said to the technician.  He relaxed and picked one of her many futures at random.  
_The sun was setting, casting bronze rays over the beach.  Between 2 trees stretched a rope hammock; Irina lay softly napping, lulled by the rhythmic pounding of the surf in the background. Humming, Jack stepped carefully out of their villa, balancing a tray with drinks and freshly sliced fruit, and  carried it down to the hammock. He glanced over at his wife, who was now feigning sleep, her lips slightly open. Grinning, he picked up the pitcher and, holding it high above her head, slowly tipped it so that a small stream of liquid entered her mouth. A small wobble, and some splashed on her face as well.  
  
Irina sat up quickly. "What the - ?" she spluttered, glaring at Jack. "Always wanted to try that," was Jack's apologetic reply. "I need to refine it a bit. Here, let me help," he grinned, pushing her back down and slowly licking up the excess liquid from her face and lips.  
  
Irina relaxed, savoring the sensation of Jack's tongue flicking over her face. "What else did you bring me?" she smiled, mollified.  
  
"Fruit," came the prompt reply. "Want some?"  
  
"You're not going to drop it in my mouth, are you?" she asked suspiciously.  
  
"Not today," he teased. Jack picked up a piece of mango and carefully placed it in Irina's mouth, holding it as she chewed.   
  
"Mmmmn," she said, rivulets of juice running down her chin. She took hold of Jack's hand and sensually sucked the remaining juice off each of his fingers. She looked up, eyes laughing, as she heard Jack's sharp intake of breath.  
  
"Did you bring me anything else?" she asked suggestively, eyes glancing at his bathing suit, which seemed to have gotten smaller.  
_  
Jack moaned in anticipation, then his eyes popped open as realization hit him. A future. He had just seen one of Irina's possible futures. And in it, he and Irina were…together. _You're not alone_.  A wave of almost physical pain shook him. Ripping off the wires connecting him to Il Dire he sat up, trembling, gazing sightlessly at the far wall. It had been so real, so right….

"Are you okay, sir?" asked the technician tentatively.

No! he wanted to scream.  "Fine," Jack replied, controlling his breathing with an effort.  "Just a little dizzy.  I think I'm done for today."    
…and it had been so wrong. Because it would never happen.  Could never happen.  He had already chosen his future. _Darkness._

**

Jack stood at Sydney's bedside, and passed a trembling hand over his sweating face.  She was the same as she had been the last visit, and the visit before.  What had changed?  Had he changed?  Two years ago, when he had looked at her, he had seen his salvation.  Today he looked at her and saw – his destruction.  

He had loved Laura too much, and it had destroyed him 20 years ago.  Had he loved Sydney too much?  His honor, his country, his future, his life, Irin- .  He closed his eyes as a wave of nausea rolled over him.

God, what's wrong with you Bristow? he thought with disgust as his hands clenched the bedrail for support.  Jack fought down the surge of resentment and bitterness that filled him, struggling to center himself.  He concentrated.  Sydney, 5 years old, on the carousel.  Laughing with joy.  Hugging her father as she had gotten off, filled with love.

The tension gradually left him.  Yes, it was worth it.


	19. Chapter 19

(18 months post-The Telling)  
  
"Er, spending a lot of time down here, aren't you Jack?" asked Sloane several weeks later. Jack lay on the table in front of him, being hooked up again to Il Dire. It had not escaped Sloane's notice that Jack spent almost every waking hour in here now. And looked it, thought Sloane critically, taking in Jack's gaunt appearance.  
  
"Being your radar is not a part-time job, Arvin. Particularly now," was Jack's terse response.   
  
Sloane surveyed the recumbent form of his best friend with satisfaction. Phase 2 was complete; Jack was now totally dependent on Il Dire. Still, the time Jack was spending seemed excessive.... "The doctors are concerned about too much cumulative exposure to Il Dire," Sloane began cautiously. "They're not confident that they understand the physiological effects. I think you should limit the amount of time you spend on the device each day." There, Sloane thought to himself virtuously. He had warned him.  
  
"I'll try," came back the non-committal response. As if he cared, thought Jack. He only needed to last another 8 months. And if he needed to spend every hour in here to make sure that they all arrived at that one critical point for Sydney, he would do so.  
  
Sloane felt a brief impulse to tell Jack the truth. That Il Dire, at the exposure levels that Jack was utilizing, would create a psychological and physical dependence equivalent to heroin. Sloane shrugged. Jack was choosing to be here of his own free will. And the more time Jack spent down here, the better the protection he received. It was difficult to argue against that.  
  
**  
  
Jack looked at the calendar without enthusiasm. 4 weeks. It was time to visit Sydney again. Pointless, really. There would be no change. 12 hours there, 12 hours back. He could do more for her here with Il Dire.  
  
A wave of misery swept over him as he realized that he would never again see her smile, hear her laughter. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a well-worn photo of her when she was 5. He propped it up on his desk. There. That was the way he wanted to remember her.  
  
He cancelled his flight to Hong Kong.  
  
**  
  
"You're sure?" Irina challenged her courier.  
  
"Absolutely. He hasn't visited the restaurant in 8 weeks."  
  
"And that communication channel hasn't been compromised?"  
  
"No."  
  
Irina bit her lip. Jack was alive, she knew. He had been sighted in the last week. Why had he stopped sending her updates on Sydney? Was he trying to cut her out of the loop in some misguided effort to keep her safe? If so, she'd have to help him think again. 


	20. Chapter 20

(21 months post-The Telling)  
  
Jack lay back on the table, oblivious to everything around him. Working on a particularly complicated objective, one that he could not have hoped to achieve before. Connected to Il Dire, racing through options and strategies so fast that he could not tell where he stopped and Il Dire began. They were one.  
  
Here, on this table, he had free will. Multiple futures beckoned alluringly to him. Each tried to seduce him into being chosen. He could choose. He had control. On this table he wasn't trapped in an appalling present and a truncated future. An intoxicating rush of euphoria surged through him.  
  
"You always did your best work lying down."  
  
Jack's eyes flew open. What the - ? He was conscious of the futures vaporizing like mist, as he tried to determine the source of the interruption. A sound almost like a whimper escaped as he sluggishly pulled himself back to the present and looked around.  
  
"Irina?" he croaked, recognizing the form on the other side of the room. "What the hell are you doing here?"  
  
"I might ask you the same thing," she said grimly, her narrowed eyes taking in the tubes and wiring leading from Jack to the control station and back through the wall. "Why the hell haven't you been sending me updates on Sydney?"  
  
"I've been too busy to visit her," he said with impatience. "There's been no change. You need to leave. Now," he added urgently. "Someone could come through that door any minute."  
  
"I'll be happy to leave, Jack," she said, finding herself a chair and pulling it up. "As soon as you've told me what you're doing." She casually leant back in the chair and studied her nails, a woman with all the time in the world.  
  
"You wouldn't understand," he snapped, then immediately regretted it. When would he learn?   
  
"Oh, really?" she drawled. "Too complicated for my little brain to comprehend? Why don't you put it into itsy-bitsy words for me?"  
  
Jack seethed inwardly; his chances of forcibly evicting her without alerting Sloane's men were non-existent. Angrily he yanked off the wires and tubes connecting him to Il Dire, swung his legs over the side of the table, and began to advance on Irina. His attempt at intimidation was foiled, however, as he stumbled and almost fell to his knees on his second step.  
  
"Jack!" said Irina, moving forward swiftly to support him. "Are you okay?" she asked apprehensively. He noticed idly that the taunting voice was gone.  
  
Jack's head swam as he weakly shook his head. "A little dizzy, that's all."   
  
Irina gently pushed him back down on the table, and pushed his head between his legs. "Take a couple of deep breaths," she commanded. She scrutinized him closely. He had lost weight, and dark circles were visible under his eyes.  
  
Feeling like a fool, Jack did as he was told. Slowly the room came back into focus. "Better," he said at last. "Please go," he pleaded, looking up. "Sloane will have you killed if he finds you here."  
  
"I'll leave. Once you've told me what you're doing," Irina said uncompromisingly.  
  
Jack growled with exasperation. "Rambaldi," he said shortly.  
  
"No kidding," said Irina scathingly. "Do you think you could be a little more specific?"   
  
"What do you know about 'Il Dire'?"  
  
"Il Dire?" replied Irina, eyes narrowed. "But that's impos-." She stopped in mid-sentence and strode over to the door in the connecting wall, yanking it open and looking inside. "Oh, my God," she breathed, recognizing much of the equipment inside. "Sloane did it." She turned back to Jack. "You're using Il Dire?" she demanded.  
  
Jack nodded, and then said with an intensity that Irina found disquieting, "I'm seeing the future, Irina."  
  
Irina stared at him, incredulous. Had she heard it from anyone but Jack, she would not have believed it. But, as she searched his face, too many things began to fall in place. Sloane's anticipation of her double-cross with the Rambaldi artifacts. Jack's insistence that she not take Sydney with her. Her "luck" at escaping Sloane's assassination attempts. The ease with which Sloane and Jack were now able to accomplish almost anything they attempted.  
  
"You're able to see the future?" she repeated numbly.  
  
Jack nodded and added, unable to keep the pride out of his voice, "Not just see it. Choose it."  
  
Irina was appalled. "And you've been doing that for *Sloane*?" she gasped. "Are you insane?"  
  
Anger and hurt flared in Jack's eyes. "If it wasn't me it would be someone else. But this way Sydney will survive. I guess it was too much to hope you'd understand," he sniped. "Maternal instincts were never your long suit."  
  
Perhaps it was the disorienting weakness he still suffered. But Jack never saw Irina's hand until it connected with his face in a resounding slap, almost knocking him off the table.  
  
"Dammit, Jack, I thought you were stronger than this. You've given up. It's too damn hard and you've. given. up."  
  
"I. have. not." Jack said through gritted teeth, barely maintaining his control. "Don't you understand? With Il Dire I can plan strategies I never would have imagined before. I can trigger the collapse of Sloane's entire empire once Sydney is recovered."  
  
"But who knows when that will be? Think of the power you're giving Sloane in the meantime!" said Irina angrily.  
  
"It's not Sloane that has the power!" Jack shouted, furious. "It's me! I choose!"  
  
Irina stared at him, open-mouthed. "What did you say?" she asked in a stunned whisper.  
  
"I. Choose. Don't you understand? So many possible futures could occur, but only one actually will. I decide. No more unforeseen events. No more...mistakes," Jack finished with vehemence, oblivious to Irina's growing apprehension.  
  
"You're not God, Jack. People have free will to make their own choices."  
  
"That's only what they think," said Jack patronizingly. "People are predictable. If you put a person in a situation, he'll always react the same way. It's controlling the situation that counts."  
  
"Jack! Listen to me. The future's not just one big game," said Irina intensely.   
  
"Whatever you say, Irina," mumbled Jack, slowly beginning to hook himself back up to Il Dire. "You keep your future, I'll keep mine." He looked up, as though surprised to still see her there. "I think you'd better leave now."  
  
What the hell? Irina scrutinized him for a moment, thinking. Watching the expression in his eyes as he hooked himself back up. Almost a feeling of relief. "Oh, sh*t," she muttered to herself, as realization dawned.  
  
"Jack," she said, reaching out for his hand to stop him. Jack shook her off irritably.  
  
"Jack!" she said, more urgently. He looked up impatiently. "How many hours a day are you using Il Dire?"  
  
"I don't know, 10-12, why?" came the edgy reply.  
  
"Did you read all of Rambaldi's manuscripts about Il Dire?" At Jack's curt nod, she pressed, "The medical analysis?"  
  
"There was no medical analysis."  
  
"There *is* a medical analysis," Irina stated flatly. Damn Sloane. "Rambaldi tested subjects on Il Dire. More than 6 hours a day of use resulted in overstimulation of the brain's limbic area. Leakage of the electrical impulses - he couldn't control it."  
  
Jack shrugged. "So?"  
  
"Do you know what else overstimulates the limbic area? Heroin. Cocaine..."  
  
"What are you saying, Irina?" hissed Jack angrily. "That I'm *hooked* on a machine?"  
  
"You tell me, Jack. How do you feel when you're not using Il Dire? Depressed? Tired? Feel like you can't control what's going on?"  
  
"Of course I do, dammit. It's not exactly the ideal working environment."   
  
Irina nodded brusquely. "And why haven't you been visiting Sydney?"  
  
"I told you. I've been too busy."  
  
"The last time you visited her, how did you feel?"  
  
"I had the flu," he said dismissively.   
  
"Sweating, nausea, tremors?"  
  
Jack nodded slowly.   
  
"Classic withdrawal symptoms," observed Irina flatly. "You've been suckered, Jack. Sloane offered you a chance at omnipotence and you couldn't resist, could you? How many times did you say 'just one more hour'?"  
  
Jack stared at her, appalled. "You're insane. Not even Arvin - ,"  
  
"Not. even. Arvin?" Irina repeated incredulously. "The man who recruited your daughter to SD-6? Who set you up with Geiger? Can't you see that he did this intentionally, as his backup plan if Sydney recovered?" She took a step closer. "If Sydney recovered today, Jack, you wouldn't be able to leave, would you?"  
  
Jack looked at her, alarmed. "No, it's not like that, I can stop any time I want to."  
  
"Oh, really?" she drawled. "Then I guess you won't mind if I do this." Irina pulled her gun and aimed it at the control panel for Il Dire.  
  
"Irina, no!" shouted Jack lunging for the pistol. In his weakened state, Irina had little difficulty keeping it away from him. "Irina, please don't," he pleaded. "Sydney -." He collapsed onto the floor, unconscious.  
  
"Enough rationalization, Jack," she said softly. "You're falling to pieces and you can't even see it."   
  
Irina aimed carefully at the panel and fired two shots, shattering the controls. The damage would only be temporary, she knew, but hopefully it would buy Jack the time he needed.  
  
She gazed at the slumped form of her husband on the floor with regret. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She turned on her heel and left. 


	21. Chapter 21

(21 months post-The Telling)

Jack eyes jerked open.  Someone was waving ammonia under his nose.  Ineffectually he tried to swat the hand away as his focus returned.

"Jack, are you okay?" asked Sloane, once Jack had been revived.  "There were gun shots."

"Il Dire?" asked Jack frantically.

"Damaged, but not irreparably.  Three weeks to rewire.  What the hell happened?"

"Irina happened," said Jack bitterly.

"Irina?  Here?  But how did she – oh, never mind.  You wouldn't know, would you?" Sloane finished acidly.  He turned and rapidly began issuing orders for evacuation.

**

It started on the plane, winging Sloane's management team to its new ops base in Egypt.  Jack was sitting by himself, restless.  Three weeks.  21 days.  504 hours.  No, make that 494 hours.  It had been 10 hours since Irina had destroyed Il Dire's control panel.  He took a deep breath.  No problem. 

Goddamn Irina.  Addicted to a machine, indeed.  All she'd done was set him back 3 weeks on his work.  She had no grasp of the complexity of what he was doing, the need for precision down to the minutest detail.  He couldn't afford that much time away from Il Dire.  He couldn't afford *any* time away from Il Dire.  He shivered, then glared at the cockpit, annoyed. Great.  The pilot must be trying to save money on the heat. 

He looked sideways to see Sloane watching him thoughtfully.  "Okay, Jack?"

"Fine," he said irritably, reaching overhead for a blanket.  And for Irina to suggest that Sloane would knowingly do that – and that Jack wouldn't be aware of it – well, she was clearly just frustrated at her own failure to stop them both.  Jack's hand shook slightly as he pulled down the blanket, accidentally dislodging several others.  Aggravated, he stuffed them back in and sat down.  He wrapped the blanket around himself and closed his eyes.  He just needed some rest.

 "Gentlemen, if you look over to your left, you'll see the Nile," intoned the pilot over the loudspeaker.  Jack's stomach dropped as the plane banked sharply to the left to give them a better view.  Idiot, he thought savagely to himself.  This wasn't a tourist flight.  He ran a hand over his face and looked at it in surprise.  He was perspiring, even though he was freezing.

"Are you sure you're okay, Jack?" asked Sloane a short time later, as Jack shivered again.

Jack swallowed, trying to control of wave of nausea.  "No," he admitted.  "Feels like a touch of the fl-" Jack stopped mid-sentence.  "Of the flu," he finished slowly, heart sinking.

"Let me get you another blanket," said Sloane, standing up.  "And I'll check to see if the doctor has anything that might help."

Numbly Jack took the proffered blanket from Sloane and did an inventory.  Nausea.  Chills.  Tremors. Sweating. He closed his eyes. Oh god.  Irina had been right.  If he was going into withdrawal, this was going to get a lot worse before it got better.  He opened his eyes and frantically scanned the airplane, needing to get out, away from all these people.

"How much longer?" he muttered anxiously to the man sitting in the seat in front of him.

"20 minutes," came the reply.

20 minutes to land, 20 minutes to deplane, 30 minutes to the hotel.  That was…that was…1 hour 10 minutes.  How long would it be before he couldn't hide the reaction?  Before he…lost control?  Heart thudding, he scanned the airplane again, and caught sight of Sloane and his head medical officer conferring in the back of the plane, heads down.  Their discussion had apparently just ended abruptly.  The doctor's face was white.

"The doctor says there's a bad case of flu going around," said Sloane smoothly, moving back forward as he spied Jack.  "He thinks these will help."  Sloane pressed an envelope of pills into Jack's hand.  "He says to take one of these each day for a couple of weeks and the symptoms won't be so bad."

Jack stared at the packet in his hand.  "Thanks," he said, carefully, cramming the envelope into his pocket.  "I'll take one as soon as I get to the hotel."

It was with relief that Jack felt the plane finally touch down.  Sloane himself escorted Jack to the hotel room he would be using while the ops base was being set up. It was seedy but serviceable, consistent with Jack's cover.  "OK, Jack, you're all set.  Carlos," Sloane jerked his head at the Security minder "will be outside.  Get better.  Oh, and Jack," Sloane squeezed Jack's arm, "you know you can call me if you need anything."  

**

Jack leaned against the door as it closed behind Sloane and threw the double bolt.  Thank god he was finally alone.  He felt like sh*t.  Staggering over to the windows, whose glare was blindingly painful, Jack yanked the curtains closed.  Every fiber of his being wanted to collapse on the bed, curl up, and die.

But there was one more thing he had to do.

Tremors shook him as he set up his computer, fumbling with the connections.  With painful slowness he signed on through the secure connection, struggling to remember his passwords.  Finally he was able to pull up the database he had been looking for.  Pharmacology.  Numbly he compared the pills in his hand to the picture on the screen.

Methadone.  Sloane had given him methadone.  

Jack lurched to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom, falling to his knees in front of the toilet, and vomited.  Methadone.  Used worldwide to suppress the symptoms of heroin withdrawal.

Sloane had known.

**

Jack had lost all track of time.  Sleep was impossible; every time he closed his eyes he was assaulted with a kaleidoscope of images.  Bullets raking Irina's and Sydney's bodies.  Sydney in a hospital ward.  Blood spurting from his chest.  'Best of Il Dire' he thought bitterly to himself.

Sitting on the bed in his darkened room he rocked back and forth, unable to control the muscles spasming painfully in his legs and back. He stared at the packet of pills, sitting on the sink across the room.  One pill a day, and this would all stop.  He shivered.  God, he was so cold.  What did it matter, anyway?  In 5 months it would all be over.  Nausea surged through him and helplessly he emptied himself by the side of the bed.   One. pill. Slowly he swung his legs over the side of the bed and staggered across to the sink. 

He turned on the water and picked up the packet.  One. f*cking. pill.  With trembling hands he turned the packet upside down and watched as the pills swirled down the drain. 

He wouldn't give Sloane the satisfaction.

His legs spasmed again, and he collapsed moaning to the floor, passing out as his head hit the ground.

**

Consciousness slowly returned.  He woke in a pool of vomit, but was too weak to move.  He shivered violently and passed out again.  

The visions were mercifully different now.  Gentle hands.  Soothing tones. A rough washcloth wiping him down. A warm blanket.  A steaming mug of soup, which he promptly threw up.  Russian curses.  And the cycle started all over again.

He dozed in snatches, drifting between a sleepy wakefulness and a wakeful sleep.  The two states merged so that he lost track of which was real, which was dream. He was freezing cold.  He was boiling hot. He was wrapped in a warm blanket.  He was in Irina's arms.    There was a loud banging on the door.  There was a painful throbbing in his head.  He was telling Carlos to go to hell.  He was telling Sloane to go to hell.  After 72 hours, he finally fell into a dreamless sleep.

Jack awoke the next morning, nauseated and weak, to a deafening pounding on the door.  He quickly scanned the room.  His dreams – but he was alone.

The pounding continued; Jack covered his head, cursing.  He had a throbbing headache.  "Mr. Bristow, this is the last time," he heard Carlos shout.  "If you don't answer Sloane's ordered me to knock down the door." 

Carefully he extricated himself from bed and made his way to the door.  "If you make one more sound," he said in a low, lethal voice, "I. will. shoot. you.  Do you understand?"  He heard an anxious affirmative through the door.  "Tell Sloane I've got the flu.  I'll be in in a couple of days."

**

Jack straightened his tie and looked in the mirror.  Still pale, but not the haggard shell that had looked back at him several days ago.  The worst was clearly over.  Well, with the exception that he had to look Sloane in the eye as if nothing had happened.  B*stard.

Only two more weeks until Il Dire would be repaired.  336 hours.  He'd be more careful this time, limit his exposure.  In the past couple of days he'd come up with a couple of ideas he wanted to test out.  He was impatient to see the results.

Jack opened the door to his hotel room for the first time in a week and stepped out.  Pausing, he looked over his shoulder.  Housekeeping would need a *big* tip, he thought.

**

"Feeling better, Jack?" asked Sloane, examining him closely.  How much had Jack guessed?

"The doctor was right. Just a bad case of the flu," Jack responded, his voice casual.

Sloane relaxed.  "It'll be another couple of weeks before Il Dire is repaired, but we have a couple of brushfires.  Now that you're back, could you take a look at them?"  He slid the files across the desk.

"Sure," Jack said evenly, and headed back to his office.  He poured himself a cup of coffee, opened the first file, and began reading.  And quickly set down the coffee before he spilled it as a wave of panic rolled over him.  Il Dire wouldn't be available for another couple of weeks.  This had been a complicated op, he couldn't fix it on his own.  Who knew what might happen? He might make a mistake.  People died from his mistakes.  

He tried to take several breaths to calm himself, but only ended up hyperventilating.  He stood up abruptly from his desk to look out the window.

When Sloane poked his head in several hours later, Jack was still looking out the window, eyes unfocused.  "Any progress yet, Jack?"

"No," said Jack numbly.  "No progress."

**

It had taken another week for Jack to develop enough confidence to take the first tentative steps towards operating autonomously again.  Shaken by how much he had lost, how deep his dependence on Il Dire had become, he refused to use the device at all the first month it was operational.  

And if he found his path inexplicably taking him by the room where Il Dire was housed, as it often did, he would force himself to stand by the door for several minutes and not reach for the knob.  Through that door lay omnipotence.  Escape.  And dependence.  

It was only after he had personally conceived and executed several ops successfully that he began to enter the room again.

**

Obsession.  Addiction.  Jack stood by Sydney's bed for the first time in 3 months, holding her hand.  Pleased to note the steadiness of his own.  Irina had been right about the addiction.  But wrong about his need to control  _"You're not God."_  No, he wasn't.  But only one thing would make a difference for Sydney – Jack's ability to strategize, to control events.  With or without Il Dire.  It was the only thing that gave him purpose now.

Please, God, let my life not be a total waste, he thought to himself.


	22. Chapter 22

(24 months post-The Telling)  
  
It was 2am in the morning, and Jack lay on his bed in yet another anonymous hotel room, wide awake. Only two more months to go. He could make it two more months. Four more visits to Hong Kong, to visit his unresponsive daughter. Three more missions. Two more months of covering Sloane's back. Everything was in place; the butterflies had been released. He just wished it were over. He closed his eyes. He needed sleep, but it would not come.   
  
A faint breeze floated across the room, and Jack sensed, rather than saw, another presence. Casually he opened his eyes. He knew he had nothing to fear now.   
  
"Jack?" came the familiar voice, softly.  
  
Jack rolled over on his side, watching Irina enter from the balcony, 10 stories above the ground. His heart leapt, but his only response was, "Are you crazy? What are you doing?"  
  
"Checking on you," came the quiet reply. A flashlight flicked on in Jack's face and he stifled a curse as the beam momentarily blinded him. "You're looking better." The flashlight flicked off.  
  
"Thanks, mom."  
  
Irina smiled and settled down on the bed, carefully placing a package on the floor.  
  
"You know, the last couple of times you've visited me you've kicked my ass," said Jack warily. "I should call the police."  
  
"The last couple of times you remember," she corrected lightly, smoothing back the hair from his face.  
  
"Mmm. I wondered." Jack's hand reached out to hers in the dark and gave it a grateful squeeze. "OK, then. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?"  
  
"I brought you a snack."   
  
Jack sniffed and groaned. "Chinese food?"  
  
"Chicken lo mein. Your favorite. I thought," Irina turned troubled eyes on Jack, "I thought you might be getting tired of Peking duck."  
  
Jack was silent.  
  
"How is she, Jack?"  
  
"The same," he said shortly. "No significant progress. Unconscious. No damage. Could wake up anytime, or not at all."  
  
"She's been like that for?"  
  
"A year."  
  
Irina was silent for a moment, struggling. "Jack. It might be time for you to leave."  
  
Jack jerked up in bed. "No," he said forcefully.  
  
"Jack...," Irina swallowed, "she might never wake up. She could be like this for the rest of her life. What you're doing might be in vain." She laid her hand on his arm. "Sydney wouldn't want this," she finished gently.  
  
"She'll wake up," Jack said with conviction.  
  
"You can't know that," admonished Irina.  
  
"You forget, Irina," said Jack quietly, "I can."  
  
Irina's body stilled. "Il Dire?" she asked in a strangled voice. Hope and fear warred within her. Hope that Jack was right. Fear that he had gone mad under the strain.  
  
"Yes," came the brief reply.  
  
"Soon?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And then you'll leave?"  
  
Jack paused. "Yes, Irina. And then I'll leave." His fingers played idly with the sheet.  
  
"Where...will you go?"   
  
"I haven't given it much thought." Not much point, he thought bleakly.  
  
Irina took a deep breath. "You...could come with me."  
  
After a long pause, Jack said slowly, "I'd like that." The truth. Just not the whole truth. Grateful for the darkness, he swallowed the lump in his throat. Was this how it had been for her, 20 years ago? Would she understand, looking back? Reaching up he tenderly traced the curve of her jaw. "Irina - would you stay with me tonight?"  
  
Irina chuckled softly. "Surely you know the answer already?" and let him take her into his arms.   
  
And silently, to himself, Jack amended his countdown. Four more trips to Hong Kong. 3 more missions. Two more months of covering Sloane's back. And one goodbye.  
  
**  
  
Irina lay awake, listening to Jack's even breathing after he had dropped off to sleep. Trying to reconcile the information he had given her with the love they had just made. With the infinite tenderness of his kisses, as if each would be his last. With the lingering of his caresses, as if he had been trying to memorize her body in the dark. With the suspicious dampness in his eyes, which had glittered in the moonlight when he had held her close after their release. And she worried - about what he hadn't told her.  
  
If Sydney wasn't better in 3 months, she was coming in after both of them. 


	23. Chapter 23

(26 months post-The Telling)   
  
One month to go, Irina told herself. One month and she'd go get Jack and Sydney. In the meantime - well, she wasn't going to make it easy for Sloane. Irina allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction as she surveyed her borrowed force, secreted in the shadows surrounding an apparently abandoned warehouse in Luxembourg, poised to execute its mission. This would be perfect. Shut down Sloane's finance center, disrupt his flow of funds, throw him off-balance. It would drive him crazy. She laughed softly to herself. Jack too. She hadn't seen him for several months and she missed him.  
  
Timing was a key part of the mission plan, the only element she had not reviewed in detail with her second-in-command. Having herself set up 4 different bases for Sloane in the few months they had worked together, she knew he was boringly predictable about security. Silent alarms on the perimeter, hired guns as a buffer, and a well defined escape route for the key assets of the operation. If, by chance, Sloane or Jack was present, she'd need to create enough time for them to escape.  
  
"Move out," she ordered crisply. As always, she led the advance team. And 'accidentally' triggered a silent alarm as they infiltrated the bottom level of the base. Now came the tedious part, she sighed to herself. Ordering people to surrender, reading them their rights. Working with the CIA had a number of downsides.   
  
**  
  
Jack flipped through the finance reports, lost in thought. He had recognized the interior of the building as soon as he had walked in. This was it, then. It would be here. "Mr. Bristow, if I could have your attention," said Sloane's finance head, with a pained expression on his face. "I'm really very concerned about our newest cell. They don't appear to have the controls in place to - "  
  
Jack pulled himself together and looked up in feigned irritation. "Grenis, it's your job to make sure that the funds flow isn't traceable. We established the Rio cell because your other laundering sites had exceeded their capacity. Do I need to do your job for you?" Jack finished, throwing in just the right shade of menace.  
  
"N-no," stammered Grenis, "it's just that -," he paused as his Security head rapidly entered the room.  
  
"Sir, I have reports of hostile infiltration in the basement."  
  
"What's the size of the team?" replied Grenis, paling.  
  
"Small, but they appear to be heavily armed. Security protocol is for us to evacuate Mr. Bristow by helicopter. Standing orders from Sloane."  
  
The moment of truth, thought Jack. Free will. He could still choose to go. "I'm staying."   
  
**  
  
Jack crouched behind an overturned desk, gun in hand, bullets flying over his head. Years of experience allowed him to dispassionately evaluate his position. They were outnumbered, outflanked, and had apparently been outwitted. Having made his decision to stay, there would be no opportunity for second-guessing. There was only one way this would end.  
  
He started as he heard the sickening thud of a bullet hitting flesh near him. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he saw that Grenis had taken a fatal shot to the head. He was alone now.   
  
"Drop your weapons and surrender," he heard in a familiar bored voice. "You're surrounded."  
  
Horror lanced through Jack as he lay behind the desk. Irina? It was going to be *Irina* that killed him? No! he begged silently. Not this, too. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He couldn't let her do that. He must let her do that. Free will. Fate. His head spun.   
  
"Put down your weapons and walk out slowly, hands behind your head. It's now or never." Irina's voice was irritated now.  
  
Now or never, thought Jack in desperation. Now. It had to be now. "Go to hell," he shouted with sudden inspiration. Irina would hear his voice, wouldn't pull her trigger. But, Jack thought as he surged around the desk, gun in hand and firing high, her backup would.  
  
And indeed Irina's backup, although he too recognized the voice, had no such qualms. Jack watched, almost in slow motion, as Dixon raised his gun and, face implacable, fired.   
  
Searing pain burned through Jack's body as he spun and fell to the ground. He felt a burst of warmth and looked down to see bright red blood gushing out of his chest. Must have nicked an artery, Jack thought hazily to himself, futilely groping to put pressure on it to stem the bleeding. He watched with resignation as blood streamed through his fingers. He had done his best; he had no more to give. He heard shouts around him, and running feet, before being swallowed by darkness.  
  
**  
  
Jack's eyes fluttered open. Where was he? He leaned forward anxiously to get a better look, but everything was spinning. He was supposed to be dead.  
  
A man bent over him. Jack tried to focus.  
  
"Jack, it's Arvin. You're going to be fine."  
  
Sloane. Jack closed his eyes. That was it, then. He must be in Hell. 


	24. Chapter 24

(26 months post-The Telling)  
  
Irina paced back and forth. What had gone wrong? Why had Jack not escaped in the time she had given him? Had he become inadvertently trapped? And why, in God's name, when he had heard her voice telling him to surrender had he come out firing? Surely he had known what the CIA trained response would be. She'd go crazy not knowing whether he had survived or not.  
  
She stopped her pacing as one of her team handed her a phone. Kendall.  
  
"What is it, Kendall?" she snapped. She was not in the mood.  
  
"What the hell happened in there? You had Bristow and then you lost him?"  
  
Irina's eyes took in her team, all conscientiously appearing to ignore her conversation but avidly following it just the same. "He took what appeared to be a fatal round to the chest. We moved on to mop up; we returned no more than 10 minutes later and his body was gone. We don't know if he's alive or dead." Had her gamble been right? What if he had died because she hadn't gotten him medical attention right away? Would he have been better off in a CIA cell? The hand holding the phone shook imperceptibly.  
  
"Well find out, dammit. Your immunity agreement requires production of a body. I don't much care if it's alive or dead, but I want Sloane and Bristow." Click.  
  
B*stard, thought Irina.  
  
**   
  
Jack woke a few days later and cautiously looked around. After watching unobserved for several minutes he revised his opinion. Despite his earlier assessment, he appeared to be indisputably alive. Nurses and doctors bustled about a room that seemed eerily familiar. Looking to his left, he could see why - Sydney lay motionless on the bed 10 feet to his left. Unconscious. Jack closed his eyes, overwhelmed by bitterness. It had all been for nothing? Had Il Dire been fallible on this, the one future that Jack had cared about?   
  
Dully he contemplated his options. Stay with Sloane in what now appeared to be an exercise in futility. Turn himself into the CIA and spend the rest of his life in prison. Escape from both and live on the run. Defeat settled like a lead weight on his heart. Exhausted, he passed out again.  
  
**  
  
Jack regained consciousness the next day, feeling slightly stronger. He looked over at Sydney, but there was no change. Of course not. Nothing would make a difference now. He tried to sit up, but fell back immediately, groaning, as a stabbing pain shot through his chest. One of the nurses hurried over.  
  
"Mr. Bristow, don't do that!"  
  
Jack glared at her. "How long have I been here?"  
  
"Four days," she smiled. "And up until now you've been a model patient."  
  
"When can I leave?" Jack said curtly. He found her cheerful manner annoying.  
  
"The doctor thinks you should be able to start walking in another 2 weeks." It was clear from the nurse's expression that she thought this was much too soon.  
  
"Two weeks!" Jack exploded angrily, then grimaced again in pain. He needed to get out, get away from the bed next to his, the silent and reproachful reminder of his failures.  
  
The nurse looked at him worriedly. "I think perhaps you should rest some more," she said carefully. Helpless, Jack watched as she reached over and adjusted his medication. He promptly dropped off back to sleep.  
  
**  
  
When Jack awoke again it was morning. He did not make the mistake of sitting up, but instead felt around carefully for a buzzer that he was sure must be in his bed. Finding it at last, he leaned on it. He saw with grim satisfaction that several figures were moving in his direction. One appeared to be a doctor, and Jack wanted some answers.  
  
"What the hell did you do to me?" he demanded, as the doctor moved into range.  
  
"Saved your life," said the doctor matter-of-factly, not at all intimidated "Gun shots to the chest usually don't have happy outcomes. I'm pleased to say, however, that your case may be an exception. If you don't do something stupid to screw it up." He gave Jack a meaningful look. "Like try to sit up, elevate your blood pressure, that sort of thing."  
  
"I'm supposed to just lay here? For two weeks?'  
  
"That about sums it up. And since your happiness is not my primary concern, I've instructed the nursing staff to sedate you if they believe that you are finding those instructions too difficult."  
  
Jack glowered at him, but did not attempt to move or shout.  
  
"Very good, Mr. Bristow. I'm pleased to see that you're a quick learner."  
  
**  
  
Sloane materialized sometime later. Jack had been unhappily contemplating his enforced idleness; when he realized he was in the same room as Sloane and helpless, the monitors surrounding his bed started pinging. A nurse rushed over and gave him a suspicious glance, which Jack returned threateningly. She backed off, but made a show of writing a note on his chart.  
  
"Hello, Jack. Feeling better?"   
  
"Great," replied Jack shortly. Sloane's feigned concern only made him nauseous. "Get me out of here."  
  
Sloane's eyes flickered over Jack, pale against the pillow, wires and tubes attached to every part of his body. "Nice try, but it looks like your ex-wife had other plans."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
Sloane scowled. "Irina happened. Again. Her team infiltrated Finance section, but accidentally tripped the silent alarm. There should have been enough time to extract you." Sloane looked at Jack questioningly.  
  
"My fault," said Jack evenly. "I underestimated the strength of attack."  
  
Sloane raised an eyebrow, but continued. "Anyway, her team penetrated the building rapidly. Security section was busy shredding documents and caught by surprise. We lost a number of operatives. If it hadn't been for Grenis, you'd have been one of them."  
  
"Grenis?" asked Jack, startled.  
  
"We found him on top of you. He had apparently just stopped the bleeding when he was shot; the CIA left you both for dead. Fortunately Security section did one thing right that day and they were able to evacuate you without being caught in the mop-up."  
  
Jack made a non-committal reply while his mind worked furiously. Irina. She must have dragged Grenis over after bandaging him up. Il Dire had not seen it. What a surprise, he thought resentfully. Damn her for interfering. If he had died - his eyes flicked over to Sydney - would she be awake now? Would he ever know?   
  
"When you get out, we need to do something about Irina."  
  
Good luck, thought Jack bitterly. 


	25. Chapter 25

(26 months post-The Telling)

Irina fidgeted with her pencil.  Debriefing.  This was the last straw.  When she had agreed 2 years previous to help Jack by working with the CIA, she had imagined any number of drawbacks.  Never had she considered it would be as bad as this.

She listened with half an ear as she considered happily what form Jack's gratitude would take.  Her pencil snapped in half.  As long as he was okay, she thought worriedly.

"Agent Dixon, tell me again what you observed."

"Agent Bristow was ordered to surrender.  He refused."

"He refused?"

"His exact words were, 'Go to hell'," responded Dixon flatly.

Irina twirled one of the pencil halves in her fingers.  Stupid, she thought chidingly.  It let us know exactly where you were.  And that it was you, and not someone else.  The pencil stilled in her fingers.

"And then what happened?"

"Agent Bristow charged us, firing his gun in our direction."

"Was anyone hurt?"

"No."  Dixon paused.  "His angle was off.  The shots went high."

Irina stopped breathing.  The shots went high.  She hadn't noticed – she had been too stunned at hearing Jack's voice. But…but that could only mean…she flashed back to their last night together…oh god, he had been saying goodbye…

"Ms. Derevko, could you confirm Agent Dixon's report?"

"Ms. Derevko?"

***

Despair was Jack's constant companion during those first few days in the hospital.  Each waking moment for the past 17 months had been dedicated to reaching this point.  He had utilized every last ounce of his skill as a tactician; it defied belief that he had failed. No, not that he had failed.  That he had failed *her*.  

Jack's proximity to Sydney's bed gave him immediate access to every doctor and nurse working on her case.  Each was rigorously interrogated with withering cross-examination.  One nurse took the rest of the day off after he was finished with her.  The reports, however, were consistent.  Sydney was in a holding pattern – physically fine, but unresponsive. "Waiting", they had termed it.  Waiting for what, he snarled back.  Shrugs were the response.  "A reason for waking up," one person offered.

On day 3, he asked the nurses to move his bed closer to hers.  He still couldn't sit up, but he could turn his head and watch her slow breathing.  Somehow, he now found it comforting to be near her.  If he closed his eyes, he could imagine she was sleeping.  

Lying so close to her, Jack became aware that each person approaching Sydney's bed would talk to her.  Why do you do that? Jack had asked, irritated.  "In case she's listening," was the response.  Ridiculous, he grumbled to himself.  As if that would make a difference.

On day 5, with a self-conscious sidelong glance, he began to talk to her himself.  Slowly and hesitantly.  It was not, he thought defensively to himself, as if he had anything better to do.  He kept up a strained conversational patter for 30 minutes, then exhausted, slept.  When he awoke, he began again.  

On day 7, he looked carefully for progress.  Finding none, he lay silent in his bed, brooding.  He had *never* been able to talk to her.  Once she had reached her teenage years, anyway.  If she were listening, which reason told him was doubtful, she was probably just tuning him out.

On day 8, he began to talk to her again, but this time of her childhood and shared memories, both good and bad.  Confidence returned.  It was a time when they had loved each other openly and without reserve.  As his voice grew stronger, he would occasionally sing to her, lullabies from when she had been small, tunes they had shared together as she had gotten older.  Singing with his eyes closed, he was oblivious to the nursing staff creeping closer to better hear his rich baritone.

On day 10, he silently catalogued all the things he had wanted to tell her, but somehow never had.  It was a depressingly long list.  Now, he thought dispiritedly, was as good a time as he was likely to get.  Perhaps the last time.  He began.

On day 11, he asked her forgiveness for being such a bad father.

On day 13, he told her he loved her.

On day 14, she opened her eyes.

**

Jack had been singing.  Later he could not remember exactly which tune.  He had finished, and was lying back, with his eyes closed.  Remembering when Sydney had been young, and would beg him to sing again.  "Please, daddy, just one more time?"  Funny how he could remember those times, even better than her teenage years.  He could see her now, climbing into his lap, wheedling.

"Please, daddy, just one more time?"  Jack's eyes flew open.  The sound, in a voice rusty with disuse, had come from the bed next to his.  _Sydney?  _Jack sat up quickly and looked over at his daughter, oblivious to the monitor alarms pinging through the room.  Her eyes – her eyes were _open_?  "Please, daddy?"

After taking several deep breaths to swallow the lump in his throat, Jack began again.  Nurses who had come rushing over to sedate the troublesome Mr. Bristow backed off respectfully, one heading for a phone.  When Jack finished, his voice trembling, Sydney looked at him in wonder.  "Where…where are we, dad?"

Jack lay back in his bed and wept.


	26. Chapter 26

(26-1/2 months post-The Telling)

Sloane placed the phone down with irritation.  The medical staff had been extremely well-compensated to ensure that, if Sydney ever woke up, Jack would not be aware of it.  This most recent development created complications.  It had not escaped Sloane's notice that Jack's dependence on Il Dire had dropped noticeably.  Jack might become…unreliable.

Sloane's eyes flicked to a calendar.  Another 4 weeks before Jack would be released from the hospital.  He was unlikely to do anything reckless before he regained his strength.  It would be critical to convince him that Sydney still required medical attention.

And if that failed?  Sloane sighed.  Jack was a good friend.  But he was a much more dangerous enemy.

**

Irina received Jack's order by courier while standing in an aircraft hangar in Kazakhstan.  Her knees buckled, and she swiftly sat down on the nearest crate.  He was alive.  She closed her eyes briefly in relief.  Takeout, she noticed.  He must be recovering.  Her jaw clenched.  He'd better be getting plenty of rest, she thought to herself savagely, because the next time she saw him - 

She did not finish her thought.  As her mind registered his order her hands began to shake and tears fell unchecked down her cheeks.  Chicken lo mein.  Chicken lo mein.  Chicken lo mein.  Chicken lo mein.  4 orders of chicken lo mein.  Jack's version of an exclamation point.  Sydney was conscious.

**

Jack stood by Sydney's bedside one morning several weeks later, waiting for her to wake up.  He was recuperating nicely and now walking comfortably;  the doctors projected that he would be fit to leave in another 2 weeks.

Once again he wondered about her recovery.  It had been, he admitted to himself, a final act of desperation for him to reach out to her.  To reach back across the years, to a time when she had felt protected and loved.  He hadn't done that since…since…he was ashamed to realize he couldn't remember the last time he had done it.   And it might never have happened if he hadn't been shot…if Irina had not stopped the bleeding…if he hadn't been lying immobile next to Sydney…if he hadn't been at his wits' end…free will…fate…his head ached.  Perhaps he didn't have all the answers.  Perhaps… he hadn't been asking the right questions.

His heart leapt as Sydney opened her eyes.  He didn't think he would ever view that as commonplace again.

"Good morning, sweetheart," he said, holding his breath.

Sydney looked up at him, and confusion filled her eyes.  "Dad?"  Sydney looked around.  "Where…where are we, dad?" 

Jack expelled his breath in frustration. Every morning was the same. She was completely conscious now, and had even begun walking with assistance.  But her cognitive progress had halted.  Each day she would wake up, unable to remember what had happened the previous day, even though her memory for events prior to her coma was still crystal clear.

Sloane had insisted on bringing in a new medical team when Sydney regained consciousness – different specialists were required, he had explained, for this final stage in her recovery.  They urged Jack to just give it time. 

Jack pursed his lips as he studied his daughter. He had known Arvin Sloane for more than 30 years.  He didn't require Il Dire to evaluate his options.  And it was time to stop doing this alone.

**

Irina stared at the Styrofoam cooler in front of her, delivered by her Hong Kong courier.  What had caused Jack to bypass their protocols and take the risk of sending her something other than their standard code?  She lifted the lid and looked in.  A small Chinese takeout container. Nestled inside it was a vial of blood.  And a note.

"Sydney.  Analyze and take action if warranted.  J."

Irina frowned in puzzlement.

24 hours later she was no longer frowning.  She was incandescent with rage.  That b*stard Sloane.  He was drugging Sydney.  Her specialists had told her that the compound they had found in Sydney's blood sample would simulate temporary amnesia.  Jack must have suspected.

A visit to Hong Kong was in order.


	27. Chapter 27

(27 months post-The Telling)

"Kendall," came the bark through the phone.

"Good morning, Director Kendall."

"Ms. Derevko."  Kendall's voice, while not exactly cordial, contained a modest degree of warmth.  Given that her team was the only CIA unit in the world even moderately containing Sloane, not entirely unexpected, thought Irina.

"I have something that you want."

 "What?" came the reply.  Wary, but not dismissive.

"The location of Sloane's ops base and his medical research facility.  I'm confident that Sloane and Bristow can be found at one of these two sites."

"How did you get that intel?" asked Kendall, incredulous.

"Irrelevant to the discussion.  I am, however, prepared to share the information."

"But I have one or two conditions," mimicked Kendall in a high sarcastic voice.  God, why did this woman always have conditions?

Irina smiled.  They were finally starting to understand each other.

**

Irina checked her team at the staging point near the hospital.  The team had been fully briefed on its mission: secure the facility; isolate and protect the patients; capture Sloane or Bristow if they were present.  She had not told them about Sydney – speed had been of the essence in planning the raid, and she did not want the distraction of explaining 2 years of history.

She sent up a brief prayer for Jack, who would be netted in the Operations base raid.  Praying that he wouldn't do anything stupid, like last time.  Praying that the CIA team wouldn't do anything stupid either.  At least she had Dixon with her, where she could keep an eye on him.  He had been a little too trigger-happy last time.

The assaults on the two facilities had to be simultaneous - attack the Ops base first and Sydney would be at risk; rescue Sydney first and Jack would be at risk.   She had had to choose which to lead.  It had not been a choice; their daughter was, as always, the priority.  

She looked them over one last time.  This raid was the real thing; she couldn't afford any slipups.  Satisfied, she whispered into her mike.

"Move out!" At last.

**

This time, no silent alarms were tripped.  This time Irina herself found and secured the escape route.  She waited in the shadows, on edge, listening through her earpiece as reports came in.  Basement – secure.  First floor – secure.  Second floor – 

"We've found Agent Bristow!" came the jubilant report.  Multiple other voices crowded onto the channel, questioning, congratulating.

"Radio silence!" snapped Irina.  "I'm on my way there."  Hastily she made her way to the second floor, overwhelmed with joy.  It had been two years since she had last seen her daughter.

Irina observed with irritation as she made her way there that the entire team was converging on her daughter's room.  Poor discipline, she thought to herself.  She'd address it later.  She jogged through the doorway expectantly, then skidded to a halt, startled.

"Jack?"

He was backed up against a wall, hands in the air.  Four MI-6 rifles were leveled at him.  Jack, who had been apparently working out, was clad only in gym shorts.  An ugly red scar ran down the right side of his chest.  Irina sucked in her breath.  It had been even worse than she had thought if he was still here recovering in the hospital.

"I surrender," said Jack in a loud and carrying voice, his eyes locked with the agent in front, his expression wary.  His eyes flicked to Irina's and back.  Dixon, thought Irina to herself.  Sh*t.  Dixon walked slowly up to Jack until his gun barrel touched Jack's chest.

"Agent Dixon!" ordered Irina warningly.

"You set up Marshall?" asked Dixon.

"Yes," said Jack simply.

"Agent Dixon!  Lower your weapon.  He's surrendered."

"You've been working for Sloane this whole time?" continued Dixon, as if he had not heard.

"Yes."

Dixon stared for a moment at Jack's impassive face, his jaw working.  

Surreptitiously Irina raised her gun, her eyes focused on Dixon's trigger finger.  With a sigh of relief, she watched him relax his grip on the gun.  Only to wince as Dixon kicked his leg out and knocked Jack's legs out from underneath him.  With a crash Jack fell heavily to the floor, grunting in pain as he landed on his chest. 

"He killed your daughter," said Dixon with loathing, as he handcuffed Jack.  "Enjoy prison."

"No!" said Jack.  Painfully he craned his head toward Irina.  "You don't have her?" he demanded.

Oh god, thought Irina.  There were two Agent Bristows.  "Where is she?" she asked urgently.  

"Third floor!" 

Irina looked around the room.  "Who secured the 3rd floor?"  Silence was her only response.  Panic welled up inside her.  "Dixon – take 4 men and secure the perimeter.  Robinson – take 2 men and sweep the 3rd floor.  Williams – shut down the escape route.  You are all looking for Agent Sydney Bristow.  She's alive, and you'd better find her," she said fiercely.

Irina watched as the room cleared rapidly, leaving behind two agents and Jack.  "Jack, I've got to go," she said regretfully.  "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he said with resignation, grimacing as the agents hauled him roughly to his feet.  "Just find her."  

Irina nodded, and turned to the agents.  "Escort him to the helicopter," she snapped, and then ran out the door.

**

_Sydney lay on the pavement, struggling to stand. Weakly she got to her feet and looked around confused. She staggered to a phone booth and placed a call. "This is officer 2300844, calling for connection. Confirmation: looking glass."_

_"Stand by," said a woman's voice at the other end of the line._

_"This is Kendall."_

_"I just woke up in Hong Kong. I don't know how long I've been here or how I got here."_

_Pause. "Hello?" Sydney repeated._

_"Get to our safe house at Tsimshatsui as quickly as possible. You remember how to get there?" asked Kendall._

_"Of course I do," said Sydney, puzzled._

_"I'll make sure they're expecting you."_


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28 – 28 months post-The Telling

15…Why?..16…Why?…17…Why?…18…Why?…

Jack's breath was coming in loud pants now.  His chest and shoulders were on fire.  His scar throbbed painfully.

19……Why?………20……………Why?…………21…………………..Why?………….

With a gasp Jack dropped down to the floor.  21 pathetic pushups and he was trembling like a baby, he thought with disgust.  He heaved himself to his feet and wiped down his face with a towel.  He'd try again later.  If he could fit it into his busy calendar, he added to himself sarcastically.

Why? The question continued to echo in his mind.  Why had Irina let him be arrested?  Out of all the extraction choices she had, why this one?  When he had asked her to take action if warranted, this was not what he had envisioned.

He looked around and mentally inventoried his cell.  Bed. Desk.  Sink.  John.  5 cameras, watching every move he made.  Oh, and one glass wall.  Positively plush compared to some of the prisons he'd stayed in.  Certainly better than the one he'd be transferred to later.  

Of course, he thought, it would be nice if they'd give him a belt and some shoelaces to go with his stylish prison jumpsuit.  He snorted.  Surely they realized that, if he had chosen suicide, he would have resisted arrest 3 days earlier.  He had considered it, of course.  But he still had things to do.  One of which was to make sure Sydney was okay.

Jack's jaw tightened.  Three days.  No word.  The helicopter flight from the hospital had been a nightmare.  Sandwiched between the two agents, eavesdropping on the radio crackling in the background.

_"This is Robinson, on the 3rd floor.  No sight of Agent Sydney Bristow.  Repeat.  Sydney Bristow is not here."_

_"This is Dixon.  Perimeter is secure.  No sight of Agent Sydney Bristow."_

_"Robinson," had come Irina's voice.  "Finish the sweep of the building then fan out on the hospital grounds.  Dixon – expand the perimeter to the main gates.  Kendall," this transmission apparently to the Ops Center, where Kendall was monitoring the channel, "we have a report that Sydney Bristow was recently housed at this facility.  A search is underway.  Alert your contacts that she may attempt to contact the Ops Center herself."_

_"*What* did you say?" exploded Kendall._

_"Repeat. Sydney Bristow is apparently alive, but now missing…"_

and so it had gone.  Had they found her?  Was she all right?

His analytical side recognized the strategy they were using on him.  Isolation.  The guards had been instructed not to interact with him; he had had no visitors.  God, he had written these protocols himself.  Did Kendall know that?  No interaction for at least 72 hours; begin breaking down the prisoner's will.

Jack laughed cynically to himself.  This was nothing.  Or at least, nothing compared to his past two years.  

If only they would tell him about Sydney.

**

Steps.  Not the steady, measured steps of the guards   He had memorized almost all of their steps.  Their schedule, too.  A habit picked up over 35 years.

No, these were impatient.  Irritated.

He looked up and scowled.

Kendall.  His first visitor and it had to be Kendall.

"Bristow."  Kendall's voice was dripping with contempt.

Jack gazed back through the glass, his face stony.  

"Your interrogation will begin tomorrow.  You will provide complete and thorough answers to every question that is asked of you.  Do you understand?"

Jack ignored Kendall's question.  "Where is Sydney?  Is she okay?" 

Kendall glared at Jack.  "I don't think you understand the gravity of your position, Bristow," he sneered.  "The crimes you committed have you facing the death penalty. You don't get to ask the questions anymore.  I do."

Jack's lips tightened in fury.  "She's my daughter, Kendall."

"She's an undercover operative of the CIA.  It's not our policy to give out information about our agents to the criminals they are sworn to apprehend."

"Fine," spat Jack.  "You don't have to answer questions; neither do I."  He turned on his heel and headed for his bunk.

"Derevko guaranteed your full cooperation."

Jack spun around in surprise.  "What?"

"It's the only reason you're here and not at Camp Harris.  You mean to tell me that Derevko negotiated without telling you?"

"What do you think?" asked Jack with asperity.  "Oh, right," he said sarcastically, "no questions.  No she didn't tell me."

"Interesting, that," said Kendall maliciously.  "Then she probably also neglected to mention that she only got permanent immunity if she handed you over in addition to Sloane."

A cold knot formed in Jack's stomach.

"You'll be happy to know," smirked Kendall, "that she'll be visiting later.  I'm sure you two have a lot to talk about."

"Apparently so," said Jack shortly.

A long silence followed, which neither man attempted to break.

"When did you start working for Sloane?" Kendall asked at last.

Jack looked up at him, startled.  Surely that was obvious.  "Three days after Sydney had gone missing.  Shortly after he took me to her."

Kendall nodded, satisfied.  "There had been some speculation that you had actually been working for him the whole time you were at SD-6; that you never stopped working for him."

A dull flush covered Jack's face.  People had thought he was actually capable of – "I see," he said tightly.

Another long silence stretched out between them.

"You remember Marshall?" Kendall began again.

Jack's face was still.

"He resigned from the CIA, you know.  The week after you burned him.  Thought of you as a father figure. Said he didn't know who to trust anymore."

The flush on Jack's face deepened.

"I just wanted you to understand that there's not a lot of sympathy around here for you.  You won't get cut any breaks.  You either cooperate or you'll be in Camp Harris faster than you can say - traitor."

Jack nodded curtly.

"Tomorrow then."  Kendall turned on his heel and left.  Jack looked away from the glass, schooling his face for the cameras.

"Bristow."

Jack turned back to see that Kendall had stopped.

"I'm sorry about Sydney.  If it had been my daughter…I don't know what I would have done," Kendall said abruptly.

Blood began pounding in Jack's ears.  Kendall was sorry.  Sydney was missing.  Sydney was dead.  Sydney was in a coma again.  Sydney was…

"She's okay, Jack.  Sydney's okay."

Feeling suddenly weak, Jack leaned forward against the glass, eyes closed, fighting to maintain control.  When he looked up, Kendall was gone.


	29. Chapter 29

(28 months post-The Telling)  
  
He heard her step long before he saw her. Confident. Lithe. Graceful.  
  
Irina.  
  
Irina studied him critically as she approached, escorted by one of the guards. He was pale. Composed. Wearing that damn poker face. Worried about the cameras, no doubt.  
  
And then she looked into his eyes, and saw the spark of anger, quickly concealed. Her step faltered. What in the world?  
  
"Kendall says 5 minutes only for today," said the guard to Irina, interrupting her train of thought. "I'll be watching on the camera." Irina waited impatiently until he had gone.  
  
"Hello, Jack," she began cautiously.  
  
"Hello, Irina," came the cool response.  
  
"Comfortable?"  
  
"The view's a little different from this side of the glass," he replied impassively. Jack let his gaze roam around the cell. "Any tips?"  
  
"Don't eat the chicken cacciatore."  
  
"Too late." A smile briefly lit up Jack's eyes, but was swiftly extinguished. "How's Sydney?" he asked abruptly.  
  
"Physically - she's almost fully recovered. You were right; she was being drugged by Sloane to simulate temporary amnesia. She has all her memories back, now, with the exception of that two year gap."  
  
"And...mentally?"  
  
A shadow passed over Irina's face. "She's dealing with a lot, Jack. So much has changed, is different from the way she remembered. Vaughn....is married to someone else."   
  
"That was awfully quick," said Jack with contempt. "Perhaps she's better off without him."  
  
"I'm not sure Sydney would agree," sighed Irina. "And he *did* think she was dead."  
  
A muscle jumped in Jack's jaw. "Yes, he did," said Jack evenly. He hesitated for a moment. "Will I see her?" he asked carefully.  
  
"I...I think it may be a little while, Jack," Irina said gently. "She's a bit overwhelmed right now. Give her some time."  
  
"I see," he said tonelessly, not meeting her eyes.  
  
Deftly Irina changed the subject. "You've heard that Sloane managed to escape during the Ops base raid?" She watched him carefully for a reaction.  
  
Jack shrugged his shoulders with indifference. "No, I'm a little out of the loop down here. But it's not surprising, really. He plans for most contingencies."  
  
That was certainly not the reaction Irina had expected. "Sydney's still refusing to quit until Sloane is dead or captured," she prodded. "She says she needs closure."  
  
"That was to be anticipated, given what she's gone through. I'm sure it will sort itself out," he responded neutrally.  
  
"Jack!" said Irina exasperated. "Arvin Sloane has done his best to destroy our lives for the past 10 years. That may not be of interest to you, but I'm going to find that son-of-a-b*tch and make him suffer."  
  
"Take a number," snapped Jack with a sudden flash of venom. "Sloane's mine."  
  
"Not if I get to him first," said Irina challengingly.   
  
"You won't." Jack's voice was implacable.  
  
Irina's eyes roamed over the glass wall. "You know what they say...finders keepers..."  
  
"...losers weepers," Jack finished, his throat suddenly choked with pain. He turned away from her quickly, then turned back, composed once more. "Which reminds me," he asked in a carefully casual voice, "what am I doing here? Behind this glass?"  
  
Ah, thought Irina. That's what had been troubling him. "I thought you might wonder about that."  
  
"Kendall told me you negotiated with him in advance," said Jack flatly. "He told me the terms of your immunity deal. It wasn't an accident, was it? You planned to hand me over to the CIA."   
  
Goddamned Kendall, thought Irina to herself. "Yes, Jack, I did plan to hand you over to the CIA, but -,"  
  
Jack's jaw tightened. "I see," he interrupted with controlled fury. "My compliments. I never saw it coming. Again." He turned on his heel and headed back to his bunk.  
  
The guard coughed behind Irina. "Time's up."  
  
Irina ignored him. "Jack!" she said angrily. "Come back here! I'm not done." She slammed her hand against the glass in frustration as he turned his face to the wall.   
  
She spun around. "Open that door," she ordered the guard.  
  
"No. And your time is up. Now," said the guard, resting his hand on his sidearm.   
  
"I'm coming back tomorrow," Irina shouted wrathfully at the glass.  
  
"Don't bother," was the reply from the bunk. 


	30. Chapter 30

Irina stood in front of the glass, gazing at the form of her husband, immobile on his bunk. She knew from experience in that same cell that he would have heard her approach, known who it was, for at least 45 seconds. She kept control of her simmering temper with difficulty.  
  
"Jack. Come here and speak to me," she said through clenched teeth.  
  
There was no response.  
  
Of all the stubborn..."If you are not at this window in 30 seconds, guards will enter your cell and handcuff you to the chair. That seemed to get your attention last time."  
  
Jack sat up rapidly, and Irina recoiled at the blaze of cold anger in his eyes. "You. wouldn't. dare." he hissed.  
  
"Do you want to find out?" said Irina, recovering and returning his glare. "Five minutes. And then I'll leave."  
  
"Five minutes," Jack bit out, and stiffly stalked up to the glass. "Well? Meter's running."  
  
"OK, genius. What was *your* exit plan?"  
  
Jack opened his mouth and then closed it again. He hadn't given it much thought, actually.   
  
"Maybe I swoop in with my own teams? Two facilities simultaneously, remember, because I thought you were at Sloane's Ops base. Both sites heavily fortified. You of absolutely no use because you were still weak as a kitten. Sydney needing immediate medical attention."  
  
"And let's say for argument's sake," Irina went on sarcastically, "that because of my unusual talents I pull it off. Then what? Sydney recovers and now has not just one, but two parents she is sworn to apprehend. Touching family reunion, wouldn't you say?"  
  
"And then," she continued inexorably, "once we've evaded Sydney's well-intentioned but misguided efforts to arrest us, we're on the run. Is that what you had in mind? Because take it from me," she said acerbically, "a life on the run isn't all it's cracked up to be. Always looking over your shoulder. Bad food. Bad accommodations. Never being able to trust anyone. Is that what you want for the rest of your life? I don't."  
  
"You're right," shot back Jack with a withering look. "This is *much* better. You walk away free while I rot in this cell."  
  
"You won't be there forever!" said Irina, exasperated.  
  
"No, I won't," agreed Jack. "There are any number of federal penitentiaries available. Of course, it still makes the family reunions a little awkward," he added snidely.  
  
"Will you just shut up and listen!"  
  
"You've got one minute left," said Jack, folding his arms across his chest.  
  
"Jack, the CIA's been your life. Sydney's not the only one that needs closure. You might not get a retirement watch, but at least you'll get to tell your story. Your way."  
  
"Yeah," replied Jack acidly. "I'm sure that will be very entertaining."  
  
"Don't be such a baby. They're actually quite civilized here."  
  
Jack pointedly looked at his wrist, where a watch would have been. "Time's up."  
  
"For heaven's sake, Jack, you've got a deal."  
  
"Oh?" he drawled mockingly. "It makes me all warm inside to know that you were negotiating on my behalf. What, pray tell, what did *I* agree to?"  
  
"Full cooperation with their investigation of Sloane. Interrogation and debriefing to be conducted here over a 3 month time period.   
  
"What else?" he asked tensely.   
  
"Release after 3 months into house arrest. Full immunity after 1 year of good behavior."  
  
Jack swallowed. "Full immunity?" he choked out, stunned. It was more, much more, than he had dared hope for. "How did you - ,"  
  
"I am," said Irina modestly, "a bit of an expert at immunity agreements. These things are all a matter of timing. Last week Kendall would have given his first-born son - perish the thought - to nail Sloane. This week - well let's just say that, with you in custody, retribution might have played a greater role in his calculations."  
  
Irina looked at Jack, who was still speechless. "You're disappointed about the retirement watch, aren't you?" she said, eyes twinkling.  
  
Jack expelled his breath in relief. "Yeah, really upset."   
  
"Perhaps," said Irina studying her nails, "there's something you'd like to say?"  
  
Jack looked sheepish. "It's easy to get a little paranoid in here," Jack admitted contritely. "I'm sorry. And grateful"  
  
"Apology accepted," she said. "Save the gratitude...for later."  
  
A comfortable silence fell between the two, broken eventually by Irina.   
  
"Jack?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Have you given any more thought to what you'd like to do when this is all over?  
  
Not really, thought Jack to himself. He hadn't expected to get this far. He looked up to find with alarm that Irina was regarding him much as a hawk might regard a particularly tasty mouse.  
  
"The last time I visited you, and I asked you if you would come with me after this is all over, you said 'I'd like to'."  
  
Jack watched her cautiously. "Yes."  
  
"You knew you were going to be shot, didn't you? You had seen it in Il Dire."  
  
Jack winced. Uh-oh.  
  
"Jack?" prompted Irina warningly.  
  
"Yes." Jack held his breath.  
  
"You thought you would die."  
  
Jack softly released his breath. "Yes."   
  
"But you didn't tell me."  
  
Jack looked away. "No. It was the only event that led to Sydney's regaining consciousness, the only way to save her. I was afraid you would try to stop me."  
  
Too bloody right, thought Irina. The idiot. "Be thankful that this glass wall is separating us, Bristow," she said through gritted teeth. "Or I'd kick your ass again."  
  
Jack smiled at her fierceness. "I'm *very* thankful. The shape I'm in, it wouldn't be much of a contest."  
  
"Is there anything else you're not telling me?"  
  
"No," he said, looking at her steadily. "Or at least," he amended quickly, "nothing about us."  
  
Irina raised an eyebrow, but only received a bland expression in return.  
  
"Then I'm going to ask again, Jack. When this is all over...will you come with me?"  
  
Jack silently studied her. To not be alone again. Slowly he lifted his hand and put it on the glass. "Yes."   
  
Irina lifted her hand and covered his. They stood there, gazes locked, for a long moment.   
  
"Until next time, then," said Irina, as she turned and walked away. 


	31. Chapter 31

Perhaps it was for the best, Sloane mused to himself.  He was standing in his new headquarters, surveying with satisfaction the hive of activity as his operatives swarmed to make it functional. His sources had reported that Bristow had been led away from the Hong Kong hospital in handcuffs; after two years Jack was in so deep that the CIA would probably just throw away the key.  He would not pose a viable threat   

Sloane chuckled to himself.  Jack probably wouldn't even talk.  On his best days Jack had difficulty answering a question directly.  In this case, being cross-examined by his peers in an environment where anything he said would be self-incriminating, it was a safe bet that his interrogators would be pulling their hair out before long.

Sloane looked up as the on-duty technician for Il Dire cleared his throat.  "We're ready, sir.  Il Dire has been recalibrated to your brain signature."  Sloane nodded. 

As Sloane entered the room where Il Dire was now housed following their hasty relocation several days ago, he felt the familiar surge of exultation.  He, and only he, had been able to understand Rambaldi's vision, harness his power.  It had been Jack who had used Il Dire for the past 2 years, but no one in Sloane's organization was indispensable.  He, Sloane, would now be the one to see the future and guide his organization to its ultimate objective.  And they were so close.

Sloane lay down on the table, fidgeting impatiently while the technician connected the leads.

"Three months," he instructed and relaxed. Where would he be in 3 months, what would his organization have achieved?  He waited in anticipation, but nothing happened.  All he could see was darkness.  "I'm ready," he prompted the technician irritably.

The technician looked puzzled.  "You're not seeing anything, sir?"

Sloane gave him a look of contempt.  

The technician gulped.  "Apparently not.  Let me just check with one of the scientists."  He left the room and returned shortly with Sloane's senior researcher.  

"Mr. Sloane, we've checked all the settings and the calibration.  As far as we can tell, Il Dire appears to be functioning properly."

"I am seeing *nothing*," snapped Sloane.  "Clearly it's not operating properly.  Perhaps you need to increase the signal strength."

The scientist looked worried.  "I'm not sure that's wise.  Give us a little while to run some diagnostics and we'll try again tomorrow."

**

Jack was ushered in shackles to his first interrogation.  He had not expected it to be pleasant; he was not disappointed.  The atmosphere was hostile, the tone of the questions antagonistic.  

_Full cooperation_, Jack thought to himself with a sigh.  He had had more than his share of interrogations over the past 35 years; his skills at resisting questioning were well honed.  All his instincts screamed for him to stonewall.  Just on principle.  

Idly Jack wondered if Irina, who had so happily volunteered him for this, had every fully cooperated with an interrogation in her life.  He snorted.

"Something amusing you, Mr. Bristow?  Care to share it with the rest of us?"

And so it began.  Gritting his teeth, Jack answered every question patiently, no matter how stupid.  He answered every question calmly, no matter what the implied insult.  And he answered every question at least 3 times, as his interrogators seemed to believe he had short-term memory issues.  Perhaps he did have a short-term memory issue, Jack mused to himself.  How many times today had he had to remind himself that the prize was worth it?

As the first day's session came to a close, the lead interrogator glanced contemptuously at Jack.  "Is there anything else you'd like to add, Mr. Bristow?"

"Today is September 22nd?" asked Jack evenly.

An audible snicker could be heard at the back of the room.  "Yes" replied the agent.  "Is there anything else *of substance* that you'd care to add?"

"Well, yes," said Jack casually.  "Tomorrow at 10am a signal will be received on the Op Tech server upstairs.  You'll find that it's a locational beacon that will indicate Arvin Sloane's current position.  Follow it and you will find Sloane.  He will not offer any resistance."

The room had suddenly become very quiet.  "Oh," Jack added, "you'll also be receiving information detailing the location and identity of every individual within Sloane's organization.  Jack looked at the agent and said dismissively, "You may want to staff up."

The lead agent gaped at him.  "You have the audacity to tell me what to do?"

Jack shrugged.  "It's up to you.  I've just given you advance intel, in front of," he scanned the room, "15 witnesses, on videotape.  Feel free to ignore it."

The agent glowered at Jack.  "Take him back to his cell," he snapped.

**

Jack lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling.  It was almost time.  He closed his eyes and, unbidden, the visions played out before his eyes as they had so many times over the past 1-1/2 years.

Sloane was his.


	32. Chapter 32

Rio

The junior clerk sat at his desk in front of his computer, sullenly sipping his coffee.  Nobody, he thought resentfully to himself, appreciated how difficult his job was.  The past 6 months had been spent centralizing the organization's payroll; each of the divisions had fought tooth and nail, resisting all requests for handing over their personnel lists.  It had finally taken orders from the boss's right hand man to make them comply.  And the payment instructions?  The clerk rolled his eyes.  The Cayman Islands.  Switzerland. The Bahamas.  

Tomorrow, September 24, was the first payday with the new system.  And was anyone there to congratulate him for all his hard work?  Of course not.  He continued to scan through the register, his final check before he sent the file on its way to the bank.  He turned slightly, then jumped up and cursed, his hot coffee spilling over the desk and dripping down onto his pants.  Screw it, he was done.  He pushed the "send" key.  He failed to notice the destination for the file.  A server in Los Angeles.

**

"Sir?"  Kendall looked up in annoyance.  "Sir, I think you'd better take a look at this.  We just received a transmission from an unknown source in Brazil.  On our secure server."

Kendall's brows came together irritably. "Don't you think you should have figured out the source before interrupting me, Agent?"

"I'm not sure it matters, sir.  I think this is the personnel listing for Sloane's entire organization."

**

Jakarta

The security guard yawned.  His eyes lazily scanned the bank of cameras in front of him.  What a surprise.  Nothing had changed.  To his certain knowledge, only one man went in and out of the vault, and he only once every few months.  Except, of course, for the occasional service man.  Electrician, to change the bulbs, every 6 months.  Mechanic, to oil the vault doors, every two months.  Sprinkler repair, to pressure check the system, once a year.  Too bad about the sprinkler system, he snorted to himself.  Those manuscripts down there would make someone a great campfire.

He glanced at his log.  September 23.  It would be a *busy* day.  Sprinkler maintenance was already in the building for their annual check.  And a new display case was being added to the vault tonight.  The work had been ordered several months ago.  He looked up to see the welder wheeling his equipment in through the door.  He frowned.

"Who are you?" he asked the impossibly young welder.

"Mohammed, sir.  Uncle Zafir was delayed, but sent me ahead to get everything set up."

The guard nodded curtly, and gestured towards the vault entrance.  "Just don't hurt yourself with that thing," he said gruffly.  He watched on the cameras as the teenager made his way down the hallway and into the vault.  He had a son that age, too.  Promising young boy, good with his hands.  Loved to experiment.  He stood up, scratched himself, and ambled down the hall for a snack.

Everything was all set up.  Mohammed was a little unnerved being in the vault by himself.  All around him he saw the same odd symbol – it looked like an eye.  Eyes watching him.  He shifted uneasily.  He had watched his uncle do this kind of work before, was sure he could do it on his own.  The faster he started, the faster he could get out of here.  He opened the valve to the acetylene tank and rummaged around for the igniter.  It took longer to find than he expected.  When he finally lit the flame, he was alarmed by the size of the fireball he released and dropped the torch in fright.  And watched with horror as a nearby manuscript exploded in flame.  Panicked, he sprinted out of the vault, down the hall, past the security station, and out the door, away from the eyes staring at him reproachfully.

The security guard, returning to his station, settled back wearily into his chair.  Then sprang out of it, cursing, as he saw the growing inferno on his cameras.  The sprinklers.  Where the hell were the sprinklers?

**

London

It was, thought the financial whiz as he watched the numbers move across his screen, better than sex.  He had had to explain the scheme to Sloane's staff three separate times before they understood what he was proposing.  Finally he'd had to take it to the level of their checkbooks.

"If you start with $100 in your bank account, and write 10 separate checks for $100 to 10 different people, how much money do you have?"

"$0?" answered one dubiously  "$100?" answered another.

"No," the whiz had answered patiently. "For 2 days, until the funds are collected, you have $1000.  On paper, anyway."

"And what good is that?" asked Sloane skeptically.

"Suppose you use the same strategy on, say, $100 million."  The whiz looked around.  Now he had everyone's attention.  "Multiply it, and you could end up with several billion on paper.  What could you do with several billion in disposable assets?" he asked eyes glittering.   "One.  Run up and crash any one of the global stock markets, triggering a financial crisis.  That's if you were feeling mischievous.  Two.  Manipulate a country's currency to the point that you destabilize its banking system.  That's if you were feeling destructive.  Three.  Manipulate a large corporation's stock price and make a killing on the spread.  That's if you're feeling greedy."

"I'm feeling all three," said Sloane smiling thinly.

"But what happens when the funds are collected?" asked one of his staff.  "Don't you lose it all?  And go to jail?"

The whiz shrugged.  "You cancel the payments right before collection. You get your original stake back, plus whatever profits you've made.  It's a little more complicated than that, but it will work."

Sloane had been so impressed that he had assigned Jack to work with him personally.

The whiz had chafed as he had been forced to perform several small trial runs.  The joy, the thrill, was in the large sums of money, moving markets, controlling markets.  Finally, he had been given the green light for a date several months in advance, timed to coincide with the EEC's financial conference on September 23.  

He sat at his computer screen in his home office, humming happily to himself in the early afternoon as he monitored the money transfers and global share prices.  As long as he cancelled the transfers by the market close at 4pm, he would be fine.  Another 20 minutes to go.  Abruptly, and without warning, the lights went out and his screen went blank. 

He stared dumbly at the screen for a moment, his heart in his throat.  This was *impossible*.  Not now. Frantically he grabbed the phone and dialed the power company.

"Good morning, and welcome to Midlands Power, where every day is a bright day.  If you are calling about the power disruption in the Hemel Hempstead area, we are sorry to inform you that a fallen tree has interrupted service.  We anticipate power being restored by tomorrow morning.  We apologize for any inconvenience this might cause."  

Inconvenience?  Oh, God, Sloane would rip his balls off, he thought fearfully.  It was all on this computer.  The accounts, the purchases, the transfers.  He considered his options for several seconds, then sprinted out of the room, never looking back.

Twenty minutes later, Sloane's funds were collected by a smattering of banks, currency traders, stock brokers, and offshore accounts.  Because the commitments vastly exceeded the available funds, Sloane's accounts were sucked dry in a matter of minutes, first come, first served.

And one of the first to the party had been a small Swiss bank, collecting on behalf of one of its clients.  Donahue Trust.  Payment for services rendered.

**

A small African republic

September 23.  Independence Day.  A day that had once been celebrated for his country's liberation from colonial rule.  And by the end of today, would be celebrated again, thought the rebel leader to himself.  His country had suffered brutal repression since the coup 2 years ago. But with the mysterious infusion of money and arms 6 months ago, he had been able to rebuild his army.  Tonight, under cover of darkness, they would storm the capital and reclaim the country, and its diamond resources, for the people.

**

_Ring._  Sloane's security head flicked open his cell phone with a snap.  "Yes?"  He listened intently.  This informant was well placed.  "You're sure?  They're attacking tonight?"  He listened again.  "Sh*t." He hung up abruptly.  Sloane would have his head.  This location for the Sloane's headquarters had seemed so logical after they had been chased out of the last 3 locations.  They owned the country, for chrissake.  They had to evacuate, and evacuate *now*.

**

Sloane sat at his desk, phone in his hand, face ashen.  How was it possible?  How could all this be happening at one time?  All of these events, evolving over months, all coming to a head simultaneously?  He slammed down the phone as appalled realization swept him.  _Jack._ _Il Dire_.  

Sloane lurched to his feet.  There was still time.  He could use Il Dire to recover, to escape the forces that were closing in on him.  He raced out of his office, only to come face to face with his Security head.

"Mr. Sloane, I've sent a team to dismantle Il Dire.  We need to extract you now."

"No, you fool!  Have them stop what they're doing.  I need more time.  Defend the building."  

"But Mr. Sloane … ," the Security head gaped as Sloane rushed away down the corridor.  Defend the building?  Against an _army_?  

Sloane raced into the room holding Il Dire, and saw to his disgust that the technician had fled.  Rapidly Sloane attached the leads himself and, moving to the control panel, adjusted the settings.  He had seen them do it hundreds of times with Jack.  

He lay down on the table and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself.  He'd pick the best future available, the one that left him in the most advantageous position, and go with it.

But he could see nothing.  He snarled in anger.  Those fools hadn't fixed the calibration.  He stalked over to the control panel, turned up the strength, and waited.  Still nothing.  Rapidly he scanned the gauges; everything appeared to be operational.  He turned up the strength even further and staggered back, dizzy and slightly disoriented.  Finally, he thought.  But still he saw nothing.  Only darkness.

Sloane began to panic.  Without Il Dire, his position was hopeless. He *must* be able to see his future.  Desperate, he turned the dial to the maximum strength.  And collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony, as his brain struggled to cope with the overdose of stimulation flooding it from Il Dire.

And in that moment he knew.  Knew why he could see nothing when he tried to visualize his future.  There was – no future to see.  But as the assault from Il Dire continued, he was bombarded with other images.  Futures that weren't going to occur that might have – with Emily, with friends.  Futures that were going to occur without him, in which there was virtually no trace left that he or his organization had existed, or of the new world order he had tried to create.  In which Rambaldi became an odd footnote of history.

It had all been for nothing?  It would end here?  Sloane screamed in fury and ripped the wires off of his head, but the visions wouldn't stop.  Now it was pasts he had never had, joys he had forgone in his headlong pursuit of power.  He clawed desperately at his head, but he could not escape.  Il Dire.  They must still be coming from Il Dire.  Frantically he moved his hands over the control panel, shutting down the device.  Still no change.  He pulled his gun and fired repeatedly into the control panel.  

He staggered backwards, disoriented, wiping his hand against his face.  Blood.  Blood from where he had fallen.  Emily, covered in blood.  He was still hallucinating.  Why didn't it stop?  Make it stop!  With difficulty he staggered back to his office, mumbling to himself.  He could make it stop.  He shook his head, trying to clear it.  The failsafe.  What was the code?  Hands trembling, he entered the code and waited.  10…9…….2…1….A loud roar filled the building as the failsafe charges around Il Dire were ignited.

He leant back in his chair in relief, only to bolt straight upright.  She was there in front of him, so real he could almost touch her.  Emily, begging him to stop. "_Arvin, I... I'm here to say goodbye_."

He couldn't escape.  Sobbing, he reached for his gun.  

One more roar filled the building.

**

Jack opened his eyes and smiled with grim satisfaction.  It was over.


	33. Chapter 33

....44..........45.............46............  
  
Jack lowered himself slowly to the floor, dripping sweat. He was pleased to note that his scar did not hurt quite so much. Scar tissue must be stretching, he thought to himself.  
  
It had been 4 weeks now. Jack was still being interrogated daily, but the atmosphere had thawed noticeably with Sloane's death and the collapse of his network. Although they still couldn't figure out how he had done it.   
  
He paused his train of thought as he detected footsteps. Irina, he thought with pleasure. He turned towards the glass, pulling on his shirt.  
  
"Hello, Jack. Missed me?" Irina asked with a quirk of her eyebrow.  
  
"Hello, Irina," said Jack, smiling at the memory. Definitely something that wouldn't be shared during interrogation. "Where have you been?"  
  
Irina wrinkled her nose in distaste. "You name the nasty corner of the world, and I've been there. You left quite a mess 4 weeks ago. Some of it was too ugly for the CIA to touch, so I helped out."  
  
"You voluntarily assisted the CIA?"  
  
"Kendall and I have an understanding," said Irina with dignity. "There were some areas where it was...mutually beneficial." She winked.  
  
Jack rolled his eyes. The sooner he was out to keep an eye on her, the better. Kendall was clearly out of his league.  
  
Irina scanned the room, and noted that a blanket now graced Jack's cot. Jack followed her look and grinned. "Earned my blanket. A full 2 months faster than you earned yours," he teased.  
  
"You always were a pushover," sniffed Irina, but her eyes danced. "How are the sessions going?"  
  
Jack shrugged. "Better. They've run out of insults and mostly stick to the facts. Only eight weeks to go. How's Sydney?"  
  
"Fully recovered. She's spending a lot of time with Will. He listens well."  
  
"When he's not talking," muttered Jack.  
  
"I... brought you a picture of her," said Irina casually. She held it up to the glass so that Jack could see. She pretended not to notice the flash of pain in Jack's eyes. Sydney still refused to visit her father. Irina was running out of patience.  
  
"She looks good," he said, his voice remarkably steady. "Will they...can I keep it?" he asked wistfully.  
  
"No," said Irina quietly. "I'm sorry. Some rubbish about giving pictures of CIA agents to criminals."  
  
Jack nodded glumly.  
  
Change the subject, Derevko. "Sydney's submitted her resignation to the CIA," she said brightly. "Of course, she insisted on actually seeing Sloane's body before she'd concede that he was finally out of her life."  
  
"Thank goodness."  
  
Irina was silent for a moment. "Jack?"   
  
Jack observed with amusement that Irina was fiddling with her hair. He suspected he knew what was bothering her. "Yes?"   
  
"Did you....did you plan *all* of it?"  
  
"Well, since no one has actually told me what happened, it's difficult to take credit for 'all of it'. But yes, I planned for a number of things to happen."  
  
"But you couldn't have known that Sloane would...,"  
  
Jack cocked an eyebrow.   
  
"Never mind," finished Irina irritably. "He's dead, that's all that matters." She hesitated again. "Jack?"  
  
"Yes?" he drawled. Just spit it out, Irina, he thought to himself.  
  
"Il Dire was destroyed," she said carefully. "Sloane blew it to pieces before he shot himself." She shot a worried glance at her husband. Would he be upset? Devastated? How strong was the obsession still?  
  
"Good."  
  
"Good?"  
  
"Good," said Jack with finality.   
  
Irina sighed silently to herself in relief.  
  
"Because," said Jack, eyes twinkling as he looked at his wife, "I've decided that I like my life...unpredictable." 


	34. Chapter 34

It had been 9 weeks. Irina visited frequently, bringing books and news. She was not, of course, allowed into his cell, but the chats were enjoyable all the same. He had briefly debated demanding conjugal privileges, but had decided not to provide the Ops Center team the entertainment that he knew such a request would generate. Apart from the odd passing fantasy of taking her against the glass, he had himself well under control.  
  
Sydney had not come to visit. It was an eventuality that Jack had steeled himself against for 2 years; but the implications of her absence hurt all the same.  
  
**  
  
...78....79....80...  
  
Footsteps. Lighter and faster than Irina's.  
  
Sydney.  
  
Jack scrambled to his feet. He schooled his face into impassiveness, attempting to hide his nervousness, before turning around. Slowly he approached the glass.  
  
"Hello, Sydney." She looked great, he thought to himself with relief. Healthy. "What can I do for you?" There, that sounded casual, didn't it? As if he hadn't waited 9 weeks for this moment?  
  
Sydney twirled her hair anxiously for a few seconds, then looked up. "I've come to say good bye, Dad."  
  
Not a muscle moved in Jack's face. "I see," he said evenly.  
  
"I'm leaving the CIA. I've finished what I started."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I won't have access anymore to you...here."  
  
"No." Jack's brain was only thinking in monosyllables now.  
  
"And even if I did...I think I'd still be saying goodbye."  
  
Jack was conscious of not being able to breathe, of the pain building up in his chest.  
  
"What you did...was wrong on so many levels. The people you've hurt. Me. Vaughn. Marshall. People I don't know, and will never meet, because they're dead." Sydney was crying now. "I can't even watch the interrogation tapes. You did that all in my name."  
  
Sydney leaned forward to the glass and said in a low, furious voice. "I wouldn't have chosen that and you. knew. it."  
  
Jack was pale now, but his voice didn't falter. "I'm sorry, Sydney. I had to make my choices. You'll have to make your own."  
  
"And I'm making one now, Dad. Goodbye."  
  
Heart breaking, Jack watched her go. The clang of the metal gate closing after her departing figure only accentuated the finality of her words. 


	35. Chapter 35

Upstairs in the Ops Center, standing in front of the monitor and seeing her husband's stricken expression, Irina loosed a furious barrage of Russian and headed out the door. Those surrounding her looked surprised. The few that spoke Russian blushed.  
  
She met Sydney halfway down the corridor. "We're going back," said Irina implacably.  
  
"I have nothing more to say to him, Mom."  
  
"Well, I have something to say to you *both*," she said, grabbing Sydney's arm and steering her in the opposite direction.  
  
Jack lay on his bunk, staring morosely at the ceiling. He had expected this, he told himself. Had two years to prepare for it. He couldn't even really blame her. Why did it still hurt so much?   
  
He was startled by the sound of returning footsteps. Listening carefully, he could hear two sets - Irina and...Sydney. He felt a small glimmer of hope, quickly extinguished when he saw the defiant expression on Sydney's face as they approached. She had been forced to come to see him, he concluded with a sinking heart. Irina was meddling again. He strode angrily towards the glass.  
  
"Don't interfere, Irina," said Jack warningly. "This is between Sydney and -,"  
  
Irina's eyes flashed dangerously. "You. idiot." she ground out. "Defend yourself, dammit! Do you think being all stoic and silent is going to win you any points? She's an adult now, stop shutting her out. She can handle the truth. All of it. And stop being such a god. damned. Martyr."  
  
She rounded on Sydney. "So this is what you were like growing up? Something wasn't perfect and you just dumped on your father? And when he didn't defend himself, you just naturally assumed that he was wrong and you were right?"  
  
"Something wasn't perfect?!" exploded Sydney. "He worked for Sloane for *two years*, Mom. He betrayed Marshall. He," her voice broke, "lied to Vaughn."  
  
"You're complaining about the boyfriend you lost while your father is facing the death penalty?" Irina asked in disbelief. "Do you think for one moment he wanted to work with Sloane, a man he loathed? He sacrificed everything, *everything* that was important to him to save you."   
  
Irina glared at her daughter. "And did you know," she seethed, "that your father saved the life of every person in the Ops Center that day he betrayed Marshall? Or that he took that bullet in the chest intentionally, thinking he would die, because he believed it would be the only chance of your recovering?"   
  
She whirled back to Jack. "Show her that scar," she ordered.  
  
"Irina, I really don't think -,"  
  
"Do. It!" she said through clenched teeth.  
  
Jack sighed and lifted his shirt.  
  
Sydney's face whitened as she saw the extent of the damage. Jack hastily lowered his shirt. "It's not as bad as it looks," he said quickly.  
  
"No," Irina shot back. "It was worse." She stood back and looked at the two of them fiercely. "This is the only family we've got. Now this time talk!" she snapped. "And don't. make. me. come. down. here. again." Irina turned on her heel and stalked away angrily.  
  
Sydney and Jack watched her leave and then looked at each other, stunned. Sydney was the first to speak. "Was she like that when you first married her?"  
  
A rueful smile tugged at the corners of Jack's mouth. "She's mellowed a bit."  
  
Sydney was silent for a moment. "Is what she said true?"  
  
"The part about me being an idiot? Undoubtedly."  
  
"Dad!"  
  
"Oh. You meant about the Ops Center and things?" Sydney nodded. A faint tinge of pink colored Jack's face. "Well, yes."  
  
"I saw Marshall the other day," said Sydney offhandedly. "We met for lunch."  
  
"Oh," said Jack, swallowing.  
  
"Do you know what happened after Marshall left the CIA?"  
  
Jack shook his head, dreading her answer.  
  
"He joined a technology startup in the Valley. They were, not surprisingly, wildly successful. Marshall's now like a multi-zillionaire. But-  
  
"...still living at home with his mother," they both finished together. Sydney smiled shyly at her father.  
  
They watched each other in silence for a moment.  
  
"Sydney?"  
  
"Yes, Dad?"  
  
"I'm sorry about Vaughn."  
  
Sydney nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Grateful that her father didn't tell her that there would be others.  
  
Another silence fell between them, finally broken by Sydney.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Why didn't you tell me yourself? When I said those things to you?"  
  
Jack licked his lips and looked down. Silent and stoic was starting to look better all the time. But Irina, he knew, was probably watching on the monitor upstairs.  
  
"I guess that I kind of felt - guilty as charged," he said quietly.  
  
Sydney looked puzzled. "But Dad-,"  
  
"Sydney, where do you think you got your strong sense of right and wrong?"  
  
Sydney was silent, baffled by Jack's shift in direction.  
  
"It was from me, Sydney. Children aren't born with a strong moral direction. Your mother left too early. And after your mother betray-," Jack stopped, wincing, remembering Irina upstairs. "After your mother left," he resumed, "I didn't take it for granted that you'd naturally know. I spent every opportunity I could to reinforce the difference between right and wrong. I didn't want you...tainted. At first by her...and then later by me, by what I'd become."  
  
"Dad-,"  
  
"No, let me finish." Jack took a deep breath. "Sydney, I'm not proud of what I am. I didn't defend myself because the things I've done over the past two years were wrong. They may have been less wrong than the alternatives, the ends may have justified the means, but they. were. wrong. I spent too much time trying to teach you what was right to drag you down now to my level. I hope," his voice faltered, "I *pray* that you'll never confuse doing what's less wrong with doing what's right." Jack's voice finished on a whisper.   
  
Tears slipped down Sydney's cheeks. "I was the end, wasn't I, Dad?" she asked tremulously. "The end that justified the means?"  
  
Jack nodded, looking down at his feet. "You always have been. It kept me sane for 20 years." He swallowed. "And if you have to go, I-I'll understand."  
  
A long silence stretched between them. "Dad," Sydney finally said with a watery smile. "You're not being a martyr again, are you?"  
  
Jack looked up quickly, his breath catching in his throat as he scanned her face. Overcome, he looked away, struggling to compose himself. "I love you, sweetheart," he choked out at last.  
  
"I know, Dad. I know. I love you too."  
  
**  
  
And upstairs in the Ops Center, much to the astonishment of the agents surrounding her, Irina Derevko silently wept 


	36. Epilogue

(6 months later)

The sun was setting, casting bronze rays over the beach.  Between 2 trees stretched a rope hammock; Irina lay softly napping, lulled by the rhythmic pounding of the surf in the background. Humming, Jack stepped carefully out of their villa, balancing a tray with drinks and freshly sliced fruit, and carried it down to the hammock. He glanced over at his wife, who was now feigning sleep, her lips slightly open. Grinning, he picked up the pitcher and, holding it high above her head, slowly tipped it so that a small stream of liquid entered her mouth. A small wobble, and some splashed on her face as well.  
  
Irina sat up quickly. "What the - ?" she spluttered, glaring at Jack. "Always wanted to try that," was Jack's apologetic reply. "I need to refine it a bit. Here, let me help," he grinned, pushing her back down and slowly licking up the excess liquid from her face and lips.  
  
Irina relaxed, savoring the sensation of Jack's tongue flicking over her face. "What else did you bring me?" she smiled, mollified.  
  
"Fruit," came the prompt reply. "Want some?"  
  
"You're not going to drop it in my mouth, are you?" she asked suspiciously.  
  
"Not today," he teased. Jack picked up a piece of mango and carefully placed it in Irina's mouth, holding it as she chewed.   
  
"Mmmmn," she said, rivulets of juice running down her chin. She took hold of Jack's hand and sensually sucked the remaining juice off each of his fingers. She looked up, eyes laughing, as she heard Jack's sharp intake of breath.  
  
"Did you bring me anything else?" she asked suggestively, eyes glancing at his bathing suit, which seemed to have gotten smaller.

Jack's eyes darkened.  "If you're hungry."

"Ravenous," was the silky reply.  A long slender finger lazily traced the bulge in Jack's suit.

"Irina!"  Halfway between a moan and a scandalized laugh, Jack grabbed her hand and glanced over his shoulder.  The US Marshal on duty at the eastern edge of the property was studiously looking in the opposite direction.  "We should probably continue this, uh, snack inside," he said, looking at her reproachfully.

"It would give them something interesting to report," she said, eyes twinkling, as she slid out of the hammock.  Lightly she ran her fingers along the scar on Jack's chest, now white against the tan, and slipped her hand into his.

"I'm not sure that this is quite what Kendall had in mind when he agreed to house arrest," said Jack dryly, as they hastened back up to the villa.

"He should have read the agreement more carefully before signing it," smirked Irina with satisfaction.  "I told you I was an expert."  

"Fortunately he probably doesn't have a clue."

_"Alpha 3 to Alpha Base.  Subject has entered the house with Derevko.  Alpha 2 can stand down.  It appears they'll be in there a while.  And occupied."_

_"Again?" queried Alpha Base._

_"Again," sighed Alpha 3 enviously._

***fin***


End file.
